A Civic Duty
by KittyPimms
Summary: Christine is a waitress struggling to make ends meet when a call to jury duty comes as a most inconvenient summons. Though reluctant to participate, she is intrigued by the defendant; a badly deformed man accused of blackmail and murder. Though the world seems to begrudge him his very existence, she begins to feel pity for the accused who is only a man, after all. A man named Erik.
1. Chapter 1

Hello? Anyone remember me?

Well, I remember all of you and a recent trip to jury duty mixed with pleas from long ago to attempt a modern tale has inspired me to write a new story! (There might have also been a personal challenge thrown in by the prosecuting attorney when she was quizzing me on my profession. I told her if she made the case interesting enough I'd see about making it into a novel like she requested).

But okay, okay, I also am writing an _actual_ novel that will simply be published (a companion piece to _A Nymph Without Mercy_) and let's face it, I can't seem to go very long without hearing from all of you... so I hope you enjoy! Oh yes, but first...

DISCLAIMER: I am not a lawyer. I am not a judge. I am not a police officer. I am not a criminal. I _am _an avid watcher of many courtroom dramas and while I have done my best to research so as to maintain a degree of reality, please accept any mistakes with grace. Or if you have any of the above professions (hopefully not the criminal one) and would like to let me know how to improve things, feel free to do so! Just please do so kindly :)

* * *

I

The judge had told them that a jury was selected at random. No name was more likely to be called than another, yet since coming of age three years ago, Christine had been asked to appear twice. From the murmurs of the other people milling about in the tile and plaster waiting room, it seemed as if many were far older and were experiencing this particular courthouse for the very first time. Despite having already been through the process before, Christine could not help but feel nervous. A sheriff sidestepped an overweight gentleman, his gun and Taser prominently displayed on his belt.

Christine suppressed a shudder.

She smoothed her hands along her wool skirt, trying to calm her nerves. She had never had any particular dealings with the law, yet somehow being in the courthouse made her anxious. An elderly woman beside her placidly worked her wooden knitting needles, pink yarn perfectly interlocking into what appeared to be the beginnings of a cap for an infant.

A young man across from her jostled his leg impatiently; cell phone in hand, dinging obnoxiously as he evidently gathered points from his incessant tapping.

Christine glanced down at her watch. It was already half an hour passed their appointed time to appear, and in her mind she once again rehearsed her explanation why she should be dismissed. She could not postpone, not again, but she needed to be able to work. While her job might be secure, she barely earned enough waitressing to keep her small apartment, not to mention her reliance on a few of her meals each week coming from the sympathetic cooks who didn't seem to mind sneaking her tidbits on her break…

The little pamphlet in the mail had said that hardships were reason enough to be dismissed and she had to believe that the judge would be sympathetic. She had been relieved the last time when at the last moment the prosecution had thanked her for her service and allowed her to leave, her legs shaky and lip abused from the amount she had nibbled it while answering the questions the attorneys and judge had put forth.

A rather haggard looking woman appeared, a well-used clipboard in her hands with a thick stack of papers haphazardly contained by the straining metal.

Christine's winced when her name was called only third, but she tried to remind herself that all the sooner she would be heard and dismissed. Her stomach growled and she purposefully ignored it, meekly nodding at the bailiff who ushered her into the courtroom and pointed to the open seat in the jury box.

This courtroom was much larger than the one she had seen previously. The face of the prosecutor was grim, his desk kept impeccably neat, his stack of manila folders carefully aligned aside from one opened with twelve large sticky-notes empty and waiting to be used.

The judge was equally stern. Her previous experience had been with a cheerful woman, whose disposition and casual demeanor had at least managed to settle Christine's nerves to some degree, if not soothe them entirely.

This man exuded judicial authority, and she feared if she at all misspoke that the bailiff and his gun would be turned on her.

She swallowed.

She was being silly and she knew it, but that did not quiet her racing heart even as she watched the jury box fill with other people, wishing she could simply go home.

Her eyes strayed to the far table, noting the young man with the too large brown suit, his desk scattered and unkempt as he scribbled and shuffled papers. Although Christine considered herself a terrible evaluator of age, she guessed he could not possibly be long out of law school, just as fresh and green as she felt. How could anyone possibly want her to pass judgment on another? Surely the justice system should reconsider this entire process. Others, older, and far wiser than her own years and limited knowledge should be used to determine the guilt or innocence of a person.

"You ever been on a jury before?"

An older gentleman beside her smiled at her kindly, and she was afraid her own in return resembled more of a grimace. "No, and I hope not to today either."

He nodded. "Don't we all. I overheard the clerk saying that this is some big murder trial, expected to go on for weeks."

Christine blanched. "I don't have weeks!"

The man shrugged. "Can't say this is how I meant to spend my retirement, but I guess we've all got to make sacrifices when someone decides to go around hurting other people. Someone has to spend the time putting them away."

She shook her head and huddled further into her seat. No matter her trepidation, she would have to stand and explain why she needed to leave.

The rest of the occupants in the waiting room filed into the empty seats she supposed were reserved for spectators, and while the small room had been crowded, she now saw that there were far fewer reselections available than she had anticipated.

A small knot of dread formed in her stomach.

The judge gave one sharp whack of the gavel to quiet any lingering whispers. "Firstly, I'd like to thank those of you who answered the summons today, though it appears our options will be rather limited. You would think the possible fine and jail time would be enough incentive!" He glanced at the members of the room expectantly, as if waiting for a reaction. A few nervously laughed but little else.

"In case any of you were not aware, this is a criminal case, and a complex one at that. As such, we can expect for it to run a minimum of three weeks, and while I understand this can cause hardship in many cases, it is also an unfortunate necessity of any civilized society that its citizens perform this duty. It is a privilege to serve and I would hope that each and every one of you would put aside other responsibilities and embrace this call wholeheartedly."

He looked pointedly at each person currently in the jury box. "Now, would any of you like to tell me why you cannot possibly serve today?" The knot in her stomach made an uncomfortable twist.

She raised her hand at the same moment as no less than five others did also. Their reasons were perfectly reasonable, at least to her. Sick children, non-refundable vacations, injuries that made remaining seated an impossibility. Person after person exited the room, and finally the judge motioned for her to stand and give her reasoning.

She was used to talking with strangers. It was impossible not to when her living depended on the tips she acquired at the café, and she found the more personable she forced herself to be, the most generous the patrons became. But talking to a room full of important people, members of law enforcement and the justice system, left her shaky and uncomfortable. Christine took a steadying breath and tried to still her hands by clasping them firmly together.

"Um… I'm a waitress, you see, and I live by myself. If I can't work then I won't make rent and I'll have nowhere else to go."

The judge looked at her skeptically. "We adjourn for the day at four o'clock. Surely your manager can allow you to come in afterward."

Christine blushed, wishing everyone would stop looking at her. "I…"

"Miss, the law offers protections of employment during your service. You cannot be fired and I'm certain if you explain the situation to your boss that you will be given compensation. This is not forever, and you may not even be asked to fully serve. But I do not find that adequate cause for immediate dismissal."

She was not worried about losing her job, but merely being without a shift for however long the trial dragged on. Theirs was a special café, where the waiting staff took turns serenading the guests with segments of famous operas. While they always had a steady flow of customers, usually business executives who appreciated the ambiance of the establishment, shifts were given based on seniority… and talent.

While she loved to sing and thought that she had been incredibly lucky to find a job where she could do so, she would have to be there another three months to even begin to qualify.

But she sank down into the worn cushion obediently, hoping that something in her answers to the interview would prompt her release.

When it appeared that no one else would be asking for a dismissal, the judge announced that the defendant would be brought in. "I must ask that everyone prepare themselves. While I have yet to see the accused myself I have been told that his features can be rather… shocking to those unprepared for them." He eyed the potential jurors sternly. "By no means should his appearance influence your opinion of him. You are to base your decisions on the facts, not on his face."

He nodded to the bailiff who opened a door to the side of the courtroom and ushered a man fully dressed in black to the empty seat beside the frazzled looking lawyer. Despite the warning the judge had given, Christine still heard a few gasps throughout the room as… well… the ugliest man she had ever seen seated himself and stared blankly at the desk. He looked almost like death. His face was shrunken, his skin painfully thin and frail, his hair wisps of dark against the pallor of his flesh.

There was something seriously wrong with him.

It was not merely his features that left with such a strong impression, it was the way he carried himself and the vacancy of his expression. Did they drug him? Was he even fully aware of his surroundings? She supposed that a psychological evaluation must have been conducted that would allow a trial to take place, but even as she stared at his shocking face, she felt a moment's intense pity for the man they had all been summoned to evaluate.

The dread she felt magnified tenfold.

The judge cleared his throat and addressed the room. "While I find it doubtful given that there is no known record of this man existing, protocol dictates that I ask if any of you have a previous relationship with this man. His name is Erik, and I am given to understand that under normal circumstances he prefers to wear a mask."

Christine couldn't be sure but she thought she heard a mumbled, "Understandable," from the prosecutor. Something protective in her flickered to life. He could not help the way that he looked and for a moment she almost wished that she _would _be placed on this jury, if only to ensure that someone who would use his face against him would not taint the deliberations.

But then her stomach reminded her that food was a necessity, and she guiltily cast an apologetic look to the accused man. Not that he paid her any heed, his eyes never moving from the table before him. She knew she was rude for so openly staring at him, but she was incapable of diverting her attention as the judge prattled about the details of the case and introduced the attorneys.

Extortion.

Murder.

The man was tall; his suit, what little detail she could see from this distance, was of a fine quality. While she tried to think positively of people, she could now admit that some part of her generally believed that a person was only arrested for a reason—surely they had committed some misdeed to warrant their incarceration.

But this man… nothing about him appeared capable of violence. Even with his slumped posture she could see that he was terribly thin, his long fingers folded absently on the table did not seem like the kind that would commit murder.

She shook herself firmly. She did not know him. His face might inspire pity but that did not mean he was an innocent.

"Miss Daaé?"

She blinked and forced her attention away from the man and to the public defender who stood before the jury box. Where it belonged.

"I'm sorry, what was the question?"

The man smiled slightly, his face almost boyish. "You're very young, Miss Daaé. Do you think you would be able to judge my client based on the facts and evidence alone and not on his appearance?"

Her head tilted slightly as she processed his question, irritation growing. "Are you asking if I am vain? That I would think him guilty solely because of his… misfortune?"

His eyebrow quirked. "Do you?"

Her lips thinned and she could not help but glance at the defendant once again, not liking that they were speaking of him as if he was not fully present in the room. He might seem detached, but this felt… rude and almost cruel in a way. More than ever she wanted to leave. "He is only a man. If he has committed some crime then he should be… held responsible, but there'd have to be… evidence." She hated the way her voice shook. She believed what she said, but everyone was peering at her—all except the eyes of the man whose fate was to be in the hands of twelve of his peers.

The attorney before her smiled, and she realized that underneath his longish hair and unfortunate suit he was rather attractive, though knowing that only made her blush and glance down at her twiddling thumbs. "One more question Miss Daaé. You said that you were worried about your job. Do you think that if you were selected for this jury that you could put aside your personal conveniences and focus on providing this man with your full attention?"

She grimaced, hating the way her attempt at protecting her livelihood had been perceived by the professionals in the room. Was it so wrong to desire a warm place to sleep and food in her belly?

"I would do my best."

The man nodded before turning his enquires to the other people around her.

She glanced down at her wrist to check the time only to feel the prickly feeling of being watched. Christine looked up quickly but no one seemed to pay her much attention. She took a calming breath and hoped they would break soon for lunch. Despite her limited resources she would definitely need to scrounge up enough money for at least a little something to eat.

Lodging was expensive in the city, but that was where work was to be found so regardless of how she wished she could save and watch her bank account grow each month, instead she spent most of her earnings on the shabby flat and what little remained went toward bus fare to and from work, and lastly to groceries.

Things had not been much better when her father was still alive.

The prosecutor replaced the young lawyer before them, and thankfully this time she realized he was speaking to her before he had to repeat himself. "Miss Daaé, it says on your questionnaire that both of your parents are dead. What was the nature of their deaths?"

Her eyes widened, never imagining that she would have to speak about their deaths amongst strangers. The questionnaire had asked about any unexpected deaths that she had experienced and she realized now they were referring to murder—probably not wanting to taint the jury with people who had personally experienced something of a similar nature to what they were to evaluate.

"My papa said that my mother died when I was very young. Something about a complication from a miscarriage." She shrugged, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Speaking about her mother's death had always brought such sadness to her father and eventually she had stopped pressing for more details and accepted that there had been no more mother and baby brother. It would just be her and her papa from then on.

"Um… my father was…killed by a drunk driver five years ago." A lump formed in her throat, and she blinked rapidly as she tried to keep her composure. Even now she remembered being home alone as she waited for her father to return home. He played with a symphony and while it did not pay overly well, they had wanted for little and she was proud of him for doing something he loved.

But then there had been a knock on the door, and she remembered how shakily she had called out, "Who's there?" before opening it to the police officer who looked at her with such sympathy.

She pushed away the memories resolutely. It did no good to dwell on it.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss Daaé, but I'm afraid I must ask you a few questions about your experience. Was the driver ever located?"

She swallowed thickly. "He was."

"And do you feel that justice was carried out? Were you satisfied with the trial and his prosecution?"

In reality, she did not have much to do with the trial, nor did she have much knowledge as to what had transpired. After she had identified the body of her beloved father she had… lost herself… for a time. People talked to her, offered condolences, and she may have even attended the trial. All she remembered was the ache within her chest, the desperation to be back in the little apartment where she was loved and not fostered in the group home where she spent the final two years of her childhood.

But what she did know was that the man was in jail and that was enough for her. It did nothing to make the pain lessen, but she supposed overall she was grateful that he could not hurt anyone else.

Christine took a deep breath. "I don't know much about the trial itself. That was a very… difficult time for me. But I suppose overall, yes, I don't have any complaints."

Except that the only family she had was still gone, and no verdict could ever return them to her.

"We all have past experiences that obviously will influence our ability to reason, but overall would you say that you could be a fair and impartial juror?"

She sighed. She should simply say she couldn't be and then she would be dismissed and she could go back to her life. But instead she found that the lie died on her lips as her eyes met black where _surely_ eyes should have been, the defendant looking up from the table for the first time—and staring directly at her.

"Yes."

The day dragged on with some members being dismissed and more questions being asked in a repetitive manner that she thought at one point she might scream. She overheard the bailiff telling the elderly woman with the knitting needles that it was cheaper to go farther away from the courthouse, so Christine went as far as she dared with only the hour allotted to them.

She now had $3.62 less in her wallet, but at least her stomach had ceased its protestations and she found that she could focus more easily and her emotions were better in check. She still resented being asked such personal questions, but at least she only felt the usual amount of hurt when thinking about her papa and the tears did not spring so readily to her eyes.

Five years may have passed, but she did not think she was any closer to healing. Not really.

The walk also helped her work out the kinks from remaining seated for so long. She was used to standing and scurrying about for work, and while she usually might have enjoyed the reprieve, she was too stiff and uneasy to fully relax in her seat.

"You have a good lunch? There's a good Mexican place on 5th if you get selected; were real speedy with the enchiladas."

Christine smiled wanly at the man beside her. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

The afternoon continued on much like had the morning, until finally the onlookers dwindled and the attorneys were asked to make their final selections. Each time they uttered a name for dismissal Christine held her breath, waiting for them to realize she was too young, too inexperienced, and definitely too unwilling to be seriously considered.

Until the prosecutor stated he was satisfied with the selections, and the judge turned to the defense.

"Mr. Chagny? Have you any further objections?"

The man swallowed and riffled through a few more papers before glancing once more at the jury box. "No, your honor."

The judge nodded. "Excellent. Then I thank our jury for their service today. Testimony will begin promptly at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and I suggest you all be on time. Court is in recess until then."

Christine sat stunned for a moment as the rest of the jurors began to file out.

"Miss? You can leave now." The younger of the two bailiffs that had alternated during the day stood before her, a soft smile on his lips. She resolutely pushed away the tears that threatened and stood wearily, casting one final glance at the defendant before proceeding through the back of the courtroom doors.

He was still looking at her, and she didn't know how she felt about that.

But she didn't have time to dwell on such things now, instead she needed to speak to her manager and beg him to allow her a few night shifts, just until the trial was over.

Otherwise they were going to need to make use of those alternates they so carefully selected, as there was no way she could last a month without work.

She only prayed that he would be understanding.

* * *

Sooo... looks like Christine is in need of some monies now that she was selected! For those unfamiliar with the American system, you do get a small stipend for jury duty but it doesn't come right away so it's not very helpful for those who need consistent funds. Also, who thinks it strange that Raoul is Erik's defense attorney? I just couldn't help myself...

_Also, _I had not realized how used to using British spellings I had gotten since writing medieval and historical stories. For me it just seemed to fit the period better and now that things are modern and firmly set in America (siiiigh... I miss sweet biscuits already...), I have to force myself to spell things differently! Ah well, I'll stop complaining.

I love reviews and getting to know my readers better so always feel free to contact me! Even just a hidey ho is much appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow._ Thank you all so much for taking the time to review, I've never had so many on a first chapter before! And here I was, feeling nervous that nobody would like the setting of my new story… shows me how much I know!

Quick clarification about the genres since a few people asked. I put Crime/Mystery because for the part I have written (which is oh so much at the moment… ahem) that's pretty much all it is. But as always, this will eventually become an Erik and Christine romance with all the bumps and… _issues _that come along with it. So never fear! Just a little patience is required.

Onward!

* * *

II

Contrary to the judge's assurances, her manager was not overly accommodating.

"Christine, you haven't been here long enough to qualify for the position. It's one thing to sing and serve lunch—people's expectations just aren't as high. You know that most of our business comes from the dinner shift, and I just don't know if you're ready."

She bit her lip, promising herself that she wouldn't cry. She had to respect the rules of the establishment and while most of her wanted to beg and plead, the rest of her remembered that this was a place of business and she wouldn't make a fool of herself by weeping in front of the manager.

No matter how much she might want to.

"I understand that, Ewan, really I do! But you wouldn't even have to let me sing. Just… let me work. I'll stick to waiting tables or I could even stay in the kitchens and wash dishes, whatever you need."

Her hourly wage was not a lot and most of her pay came from the tips received from her performances, but anything would be helpful. She had almost scoffed when the clerk at the courthouse had tried to offer comfort by reminding her that jurors were paid fifteen dollars a day for their service—as if that was enough to cover rent and utilities.

Ewan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Christine, we have people who do that and they need the money just as much as you do. I can't deny them a shift just because you got called in for jury duty."

Despair settled over her and she pulled her coat a bit more firmly around her, even though the interior of the restaurant was comfortably cool.

"Listen, did you try to explain our policies to them? The court tries to be understanding about this kind of thing, especially since you're so young."

She shook her head, and even to her own ears her voice was pleading. "I tried to but the judge said that this trial was important and if I would just explain to you, you'd help me. _Please, _Ewan, it's just until the trial is over. I need this job…"

His lips thinned and he motioned for her to follow him into the office and he pulled out the deployment chart filled with names—her own still placed on shifts she could no longer cover. "I can't make you any promises but I will talk to the rest of the staff and see if anyone is willing to switch with you."

Christine's shoulders slumped and she nodded, at least glad that he would look into the matter.

"You're a good worker, Christine, and I'll do what I can. I know you didn't ask for this but it's still a big inconvenience."

She bit her lip to keep back her retort. She most certainly did _not _ask to be called and if she had succeeded in being dismissed, she would be more than happy to work whatever shifts he asked of her. She was always dependable, and it made her a little sad that he didn't seem to value her talents more. Perhaps she wasn't the one regular customers always requested, but a few came especially for her, introducing her to clients and praising her performances.

But she did not betray any of her feelings, instead offering what semblance of a smile she could manage.

"Thanks, Ewan, I really appreciate it."

He gave her a small grin, and she suddenly realized how tired he looked. He was only twenty-eight yet he bore most of the responsibility of running and managing the restaurant, the owner being a rude, overbearing woman who had received ownership of the place following a long and tedious divorce.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry that this is such a burden on you."

Ewan sighed again and gave a half-hearted shrug. "It's nothing for you to worry about. Just…" He shuffled a few papers on his desk before squaring his shoulders. "Try to remember that I'm not the one who makes these rules. I know what you and the rest of the staff must think, but I'm someone's employee, just the same as you."

She blinked. "Is the restaurant in trouble?"

He chuffed out a low laugh. "Not if I can help it. But Christine, I'm not the one who's really in charge. I can only try to make the best of it."

New worries settled over her. Would she even have a job to come back to? They did not lack patrons and the food was excellent, but the owner was… eccentric. She took hiring upon herself, and after the audition she was the one to place the prospective staff member on a shift. She had been critical of Christine's voice, claiming that she lacked feeling and passion, and Christine had not thought to argue.

Her joy for singing had dulled significantly since her father's death. While once it had been a source of endless amusement between them, now she felt empty and lonely without his violin to accompany her.

She would have preferred to sing melancholy pieces, but evidently that was not conducive to the proper atmosphere, and more lively compositions were selected. And although she had some reservations in the beginning, she had started to notice that the cheerful melodies or the occasional lovesick ballad almost made her feel better.

For so long she allowed the hollow ache that resided in her heart to taint what used to bring her comfort. Perhaps her papa would be proud if she could still find some pleasure in the diversion they had once shared so freely.

It was dark by the time Christine walked home from the bus stop. While the restaurant was in one of the nicer portions of the city, her small studio apartment could not boast of fine surroundings. The street lamps were few and far between and the buildings were dirty, and it was not at all uncommon for her to be stopped by a few homeless asking for change. Most of them were harmless, and she would spare whatever she could—though her giving wasn't often due to her own meager income.

But what she hated were the times when some of the rough looking men would call out to her as she passed, making lewd remarks about what they would like to do with her if she ever came nearer.

She had started keeping pepper spray in her purse, just in case.

Her apartment was not as nice as the one she had shared with her papa, but she took good care of it. The building itself was old as was much of the city, and while others in her building might not have been so careful in its upkeep, she did her best to keep a tidy house. Her papa had always ensured their home was clean, no matter the state of the place when they moved into it. "Just because we're poor doesn't mean we have to be slobs, Christine."

Her parents had emigrated from Sweden early in their marriage, ready for a grand adventure that included greater opportunity for her papa to make use of his musical talents. France had been considered, the romance of the country a tempting allure to the newly wedded couple, but ultimately America had become their chosen destination. Her mother had always supported him, or so he had often told her, even though Christine could see that guilt lingered on her papa's face.

She thought she understood it now.

To support a dream meant drudgery and sacrifice, whether it be skipped meals or dealing with unruly customers simply for the sake of a paycheck. Her mother had worked as a waitress while her father auditioned, and while he said they had been happy, Christine realized now how much her mother had loved her father to put his ambitions before her own.

Christine didn't even know what her own dreams were. Her father had wanted her to join him on stage, where she could sing as he played his violin, only this time to people who truly understood the art of music instead of what neighbors could overhear through the too-thin walls of their apartment.

She climbed the many steps up to her apartment, sighing in relief when the door clicked shut behind her and the quiet of the room embraced her. She was too tired to consider dinner, and she'd rather wait to eat any of her small reserves until she was more confident in her income, so instead she stripped tiredly out of her clothes and donned one of her well-worn nighties, soft and thin with age, before huddling under the covers and hoping that everything would work out all right, just for a little while longer.

-X-

"You look tired, missy. Not excited for your first murder trial?"

Despite how early she had gone to bed the night before, worries and troubled thoughts kept her from sleeping until almost dawn, and she had been forced to scramble to find suitable clothes before once more making her way to the courthouse.

She pushed away her grumbling thoughts that such was her lot that she would be required to frequent the courthouse on the other side of the city, and not the building she passed nearly every day on her way to the restaurant.

She turned to the man on her right, the same man who had spoken to her the day before. "Not really. It's a big responsibility and I've got a lot on my mind right now."

He smiled sympathetically and patted her hand. "Can't say that it's not good you're nervous. I've sat on a trial once before and there was a young kid who wouldn't take it seriously. No matter what the prosecutor says, it's hard to forget that a man's life is on our hands, and he'll be punished according to our vote. Doesn't get much more serious than that."

Christine nodded, his words not comforting her in the least.

"Name's Richard by the way. I guess we'll be getting pretty well acquainted over the next few weeks."

"Christine," she mumbled, grasping his proffered hand lightly.

Richard might have continued speaking but all of Christine's focus shifted to the defendant, led into the room by two bailiffs. He looked a little different today. While his face was still as deathly, his body impossibly thin, he carried himself with a bit more presence than before—his stare not quite as vacant.

"Scary, isn't he?"

Christine swallowed, her eyes never moving from his form. "He's only a man. He can't help it if he looks like that."

Richard shrugged. "Hear all the time in the news about face transplants and medical advancements. He could probably have tried something."

Irritation rose within her at his critical tone. While she did not know this man, Richard most certainly didn't either. Anyone could be poor and struggle with even basic necessities, and hospitalizations were expensive. Every year when flu season returned, she prayed she would remain well enough to work as she could not afford days off to recuperate, let alone a trip to the hospital from complications.

While the man was wearing a suit that appeared to be of quality, that did not guarantee he had money enough for risky surgeries. And if his parents had been poor like hers, they certainly couldn't have helped him when he was little, no matter how they might have wanted to.

One of the bailiffs came forward, a large stack of notepads in his hand as well as a clump of black pens rubber banded together. "These are for you to use to take notes throughout the trial and they are _strictly _confidential. When deliberations begin you may refer to them in your discussions but until then, keep them close and keep them private!"

"Don't know how we're supposed to do that when we're seated so close together," a young man in the front row grumbled in what she was sure was supposed to have been a low voice. A few of the other jurors chuckled, but Christine could understand his discomfort. A rather burly man was seated next to him, his shoulders easily encroaching on the younger man's seat.

"All rise!"

The judge entered, his hands already waving for the room's occupants to sit.

Christine smiled dimly as Richard's grumbled, "I'm too old for all this up and down…"

"I would like to thank our jury for being so punctual, I know this can be a terrible inconvenience for you and the court acknowledges your service." His voice was low and rote and Christine imagined it was tedious to constantly thank a group of twelve hostages—at least, that's how she felt in the moment.

While the jurors had indeed been on time, the court had not been so prompt. Already they were an hour behind schedule. The courtroom itself had been locked and they once more had to sit idly by in the waiting room. She had thought that at the very least the too-small room would have seemed more spacious now that the jury had been selected, but instead it was even more crowded as the courtroom across the hall summoned a new batch of potentials for service. Yesterday she had been able to grab one of the few chairs, but today she had finally abandoned the room altogether in favor of sitting on the stairs, trying to find a bit of peace amidst the stuffy hallways.

Eventually a bailiff had appeared and ushered them into the courtroom, and Christine had been grateful for the moderate temperatures and a cushioned chair—a vast improvement over the harsh tile step.

"Now, before we begin, I'm given to understand that a plea agreement was offered yesterday by the prosecution. Has the defense decided to accept those terms?" He fiddled with the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, squinting at a piece of paper before him. "Life imprisonment instead of the death penalty. What say you Mr. Chagny? Does your client wish to accept?"

Christine's heart clenched at the possibility that this decision would be taken from them. The man would not have to… die, and she could go home and back to work immediately.

And then she felt horribly guilty. Some people plead guilty even when innocent simply because they were frightened. The defendant did not _seem _afraid, but that didn't mean much.

And she hated to think what would be done to him in prison with a face like his.

The young attorney stood, buttoning his suit jacket nervously. His suit today was a light grey, and while this time it seemed to fit him better, Christine could not help but cringe at the pink paisley tie and coordinating shirt that seemed so terribly out of place in the courtroom.

"My client has chosen to proceed with the trial, your honor."

The judge did not look surprised. "Very well, we shall proceed with opening statements. Mr. Sorelli, would you care to start?"

"Certainly, your honor."

Compared to Mr. Chagny's strange attire, the prosecutor looked every bit the professional attorney. He exuded confidence and authority, and he walked purposefully in front of the jurors.

"Members of the jury, the case before you is a simple one, but only if you do not allow your compassion to overtake the facts. While this man may have had a difficult life due to his deformity, that does not make him any less responsible for his actions. What the State will show is that the accused, on the third of April, entered the home of Edgar Poligny and when the defendant's attempts to further blackmail him failed, shot and killed him. You will hear testimony from Poligny's business partner Claude Debienne who will give evidence that this man," he pointed firmly at the accused, and Christine couldn't help but think it rude, "sought to exert control over their business for many, many years. He used fear and manipulation until finally, when the two gentlemen desired retirement and refused to give into his continued demands, Poligny suffered a fatal shot to the head. And furthermore, in his attempt to hide his crimes, the defendant staged the scene to appear as a suicide, showing a distinct lack of remorse for his actions."

The prosecutor paused and looked each juror in the eye, and Christine felt distinctly uncomfortable at his scrutiny.

"You will also hear testimony from a private investigator assigned to the case as well as the investigating officer, both of which will provide evidence of the involvement of the accused as well as the execution of the crime. Thank you."

Due to his formality, Christine half expected him to bow before returning to his seat.

But his demeanor was an effective tool, as she found her opinion of the defendant already muddying. Everyone was capable of terrible deeds, even ones who suffered through physical deformities and who made her feel such a sense of pity…

She stomped down her conclusions and reminded herself firmly that they were to suspend forming firm judgments until the evidence was given in its entirety. She would remain open minded and not allow herself to be swayed simply depending on who was talking. Lawyers were trained in the art of persuasion and she would _not _be a simpleton who merely believed whatever was spoken at her. She would use discernment and reasoning and, despite her reticence in being here at all, be the best juror she could.

Because it was impossible to ignore that a man's life hung in the balance.

"Mr. Chagny, would you care to provide your opening statement?"

The young man rose, wiping his palms on his pant legs before coming to stand before the jury box. He fiddled with his tie for a moment before taking a deep breath. He stood a bit taller and Christine sympathized with the difficulty he was having as he obviously tried to pull himself together. While she could sing in front of a crowd with little difficulty, she loathed speaking in front of others—and hadn't she been forced to address this very room only yesterday?

She shivered a little just remembering it.

But regardless of her commiseration, he had chosen a profession that required him to do so, and she hoped that he was actually qualified to defend this man.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," surprisingly his voice was steady, and Christine relaxed a bit hearing it, "the burden of proof lies with the prosecution. Not only must the State convince you that Edgar Poligny was murdered, but they must also unequivocally prove that my client was the one to pull the trigger. They must show that he was the one who, allegedly, harassed both Poligny and Debienne into making financial and artistic decisions at their theatre company that they would not have otherwise made. What this requires, ladies and gentlemen, is _proof._

"And that, I am afraid, after I have looked over all their so called evidence, is sincerely lacking. While an argument could be made that there were some mysterious events at the theatre, there is very little that can actually be connected to my client."

He turned slightly to the prosecution, his expression almost accusatory. "Yet here we are."

The judge interrupted. "Keep things civil, Mr. Chagny. You may be new to this, but I don't tolerate cheap shots in my courtroom."

He bowed his head, looking properly contrite, though Christine didn't really believe it. "My apologies your honor."

"The prosecution asks you to suspend your compassion in favor of the facts, but I would urge you to remember that the DA and the police department, while admirable agencies, are just as fallible as they rely on human judgment."

Christine shifted uncomfortably as he voiced her very concern. Who was she to sentence someone? Who were these other eleven people?

"My client is not a monster. My client is a man who has been unjustly accused of these crimes based on circumstantial evidence, and that cannot be tolerated—not in a justice system that relies on fact and evidence over bias and prejudice."

Christine's eye flickered to the accused, and for the first time she noted the small cuts and bruises that were half-healed on his pale flesh. She didn't know much about how the system worked, but she thought he was probably kept in jail until the trial was over. Weren't there guards who were meant to protect him from other inmates?

She hated to think how cruel some might be based solely on his face. From what she could tell of his body he looked frail and thin, not at all like he was capable of defending himself. His height was really the only imposing thing about him, and she doubted that would be enough to dissuade someone from hurting him if they so desired.

Richard leaned close to her, his voice only a whisper. "How do they expect us to keep from taking a face like that into account? Either he's a monster just like he appears to be, or he's a saint and this is all a big misunderstanding."

"I would remind the jury not to begin speaking until the deliberation has begun. For now you are here to listen and observe, not form conclusions." The judge gave a pointed glance in their direction. "_Or _interrupt my court with whispering."

Richard sat back sheepishly, and Christine's cheeks flamed from being caught—whether or not she had actively participated.

"Now, Mr. Sorelli, would you like to call your first witness?"

* * *

Sooo… Opening statements, and next up, witnesses! Any preliminary thoughts on Erik's guilt or innocence? Mind you, the lawyers said to wait until you've heard all the fact before forming an opinion… but come on, we all get gut feelings. And it looks like at least one of Christine's managers isn't totally unreasonable… wonder who the owner is?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, instead of whinging about the drop off in reviews (was it something I said?!) I will simply say who's ready to get this case started for real? Hmmm? Oh, and a heads up… I don't think I was overly graphic on the details, but be aware that this is a trial for murder so there will be discussion of gruesome… things. Now…

Onward!

* * *

III

"Of course, your honor. The prosecution calls Detective Alexander Mifroid to the stand."

Christine didn't know what she expected. Most of the police officers she had seen were the ones dragging runaways back to the group home, young, harried looking men and women with scowls on their faces for having to be back _again _to a place that anyone would have wanted to escape. She couldn't quite explain it but they had frightened her. But then, she was frightened of most things in those days—girls who envied her hair, her shoes… anything at all really_. _She especially hated having to pass the boy's hall on the way down to breakfast and having to hear all sorts of terrible things if any of the older ones caught sight of her.

Not all of them were so bad of course, especially the little ones. They had their own separate floor that was supposedly more _appropriate for their age. _Even through the haze of her own grief Christine could see the true purpose for the separate and barred sleeping arrangements. Many of the other children were not merely orphans, they had been taken from abusive homes. And clearly the staff feared that if left alone with younger, more vulnerable children, they would seek to do harm.

And those little ones had been so sweet. While the staff did their best to ensure their charges were safe and relatively contented, there was not enough love and affection to go around. None of the children were younger than five, and during free hours Christine would often sit with some of them, reading stories and giving hugs. It might not have soothed her own heart, but judging from some of their hopeful faces it eased some of their burdens, if only for a while, so she was happy to do it.

The officer that entered the courtroom was not young, but wasn't old either. And while the others in her experience had scowled, he merely looked… grim.

The bailiff approached had made the man swear to tell the truth, and there was something almost nonchalant in the way he raised his hand and made his vow. Obviously this was a man who had testified many times—so often that the reverence and nerves had all but dissipated.

Christine wondered if by the time the trial was finished she would be able to relax in her chair instead of holding her muscles taut, afraid that even the slightest slouch would result in a chastisement from the bench.

Mr. Sorelli rose, adjusting his tie briefly before approaching the witness stand. While the box itself had always been stationed near to the jurors, she had not really considered how close it truly was. Even though she was seated in the back row, they were almost too near—she could smell the cologne of the prosecutor, and she could see a few crumbs on the witness's uniform, evidence of a snack hastily consumed before court.

She wished she had been able to afford such a thing and she glanced down at her watch. Lunch would be called soon…

"Good morning, Detective Mifroid. For the sake of introductions would you mind telling the court how long you have been in homicide?"

The detective shifted slightly in his seat. "Fifteen years now."

"So would you say you are well educated in telling the difference between a suicide and a homicide?"

Mifroid looked mildly exasperated. "I wouldn't be doing my job if I couldn't tell that."

Mr. Sorelli smiled placidly. "Granted. When you were first called to the Poligny home on April third…"

"Fourth. The wife discovered the body the night of the third but I was not called to the scene until after midnight. That would make it the fourth."

Christine thought the prosecutor looked mildly annoyed at the interruption, but she rather appreciated the detective's attention to detail. She scribbled a little note on the legal pad clutched tightly in her hands.

"Very well, on the fourth of April you entered the Poligny home and what did you find there?"

"The wife was crying in the living room and one of the first responders was attempting to calm her down. The victim, sixty-one year old Edgar Poligny was found dead in his study, a single gunshot wound to the head. COD was confirmed later by the coroner."

Mr. Sorelli went to his desk and picked up a manila folder. "Exhibit A, your honor. Coroner's report after full autopsy was performed."

The judge accepted the document, quickly glancing at it. "Proceed."

"Did you notice anything unusual about the scene, Detective?"

Mifroid nodded. "The gun was positioned strangely in the victim's hand, and the fingerprints were a little _too _pristine. Usually when a gun undergoes normal cleaning and use there are many prints over the barrel as well as the handle, but this one only had a partial thumb and pointer."

"And those were consistent with Poligny's fingerprints?"

"They were."

"Was there anything else suspicious about the wound?"

"The angle had a slightly downwards trajectory. Typically when someone commits suicide they hold the gun at an upwards angle, either through the mouth," he demonstrated by putting two fingers to his lips, "or at the temple." This time he placed his fingers to the side of his head and mimicked pulling the trigger.

Christine flinched.

"For the bullet to enter from above is awkward in a self-inflicted wound, atypical in a suicide."

"At which point you began investigating it as a homicide?"

"Yes."

"Tell the court about the gun. Was it Mr. Poligny's?"

"That was when suspicions started getting confirmed. The gun was purchased by the victim almost three years ago. The wife told us that he had started receiving threatening notes and feared for his life."

Mr. Chagny rose. "Objection, your honor, hearsay."

The judge cleared his throat. "Did she see these notes herself?"

"Yes, your honor."

"The prosecution enters Exhibit B into the record, notes given to the police by Mrs. Poligny."

Richard leaned close to her and although she wanted to move away and scold him thoroughly, she could only stare straight ahead and hope he realized she did not want to be party to his disregard to the judge's previous reprimand.

"Do you think we'll get to see this stuff at some point? The judge just keeps taking it."

She shrugged ever so slightly. She did not own a television so she did not even have fictional courtrooms to help guide her during the trial.

"Very well, overruled. Sit down, Mr. Chagny."

He appeared a bit disgruntled but obeyed.

"What did these letters indicate to you?"

"Extortion. And in my experience, blackmail often leads to a death. Either the blackmailer offs the victim when they no longer choose to cooperate, or one day the victim has simply had enough and commits suicide. Either way, someone ends up dead and I have a case to solve."

The prosecutor turned to his desk and flipped through a legal pad of his own before turning back to the witness. "What led you to suspect the accused?"

The detective shifted in his chair, and Christine caught a brief glimmer of discomfort on his otherwise stoic features.

She made another scribble in her notepad.

"He was a hard one to track down. There weren't any unidentified prints in the victim's home, and while we had the letters and a sketchy looking suicide, there wasn't a lot of evidence of who could have actually committed a murder. Naturally we investigated the wife," his gaze flickered to the jury but he quickly righted his attention to the prosecution, "as you know, it's almost always the spouse, but we couldn't find much of a motive. And she would have had to overpower her husband and she's a slight little thing—didn't think it was likely given the crime scene."

Mr. Sorelli waved his hand to continue. "The accused."

"Ah, right. Well. Like I said, there wasn't much to go on, 'cause it's not like one of those damn TV shows where a hair fiber shows up and the case gets blown."

He paused, almost as if waiting for commiseration from the prosecutor who merely cocked an eyebrow at him in response. "Anyway, we were approached by a private investigator—Middle Eastern guy who suggested we take a more serious look at the victim's business affairs."

The judge interrupted. "Just to save Mr. Chagny the objection, this is the same investigator we will be hearing from later, correct? A Mr.… Abdul Nadir?"

"Yes, your honor."

Christine couldn't be sure but she thought the prosecutor sounded rather annoyed at yet another disruption. Wasn't it the judge's job to moderate a questioning? She wished she had some frame of reference on how all of this was supposed to work.

The detective cleared his throat after Mr. Sorelli bade him continue. "He said we'd have better luck finding our perp if we made some enquiries about the theatre as some… rumors often had a kernel of truth."

He said this with a tone of disbelief and an air of impatience. "Honestly, I thought it was a load of baloney but we had no other leads so I went over there with a couple of uniforms to interview some of the staff."

"_There _being the opera-house owned and operated by the late Edgar Poligny and his partner, Claude Debienne?"

"Correct."

"And what information was gathered at by your interviews?"

The detective's lips thinned. "These were theatre people if you get my drift. They gave lots of stories about ghosts and Death wandering the halls, and while they tried to look _fearful, _they so obviously thought it was all very funny and added to the overall excitement of their work. I was about to dismiss the whole thing and go back to the station until…" He hesitated, and Christine thought that underneath the gruffness, something about this case genuinely had disturbed him.

"Until?"

"Management had put up security cameras throughout the hallways and offices, hoping to catch whoever was dropping off the threatening letters. We reviewed the footage and there was nothing. One moment the desk would be clear, the next there was a letter, ready and waiting to be read."

"And what were the content of these letters?"

"Nothing much to anyone not involved in the theatre. Tweaks to the cast, choreography, things like that. But unless they were carried out, the _ghost _as he called himself, threatened numerous disasters."

"Nothing specific?"

"Not within the letters no, but the intent was fairly obvious. The staff was sure to regale me with all the accidents that had occurred since their new production started. It's hard to sift through normal mishaps and something more… intentional."

"But something eventually led you to suspect that someone was involved."

"Yes, a video. Apparently one of the chorus girls was frightened and got her boyfriend to film the rehearsal. It's grainy, but you can clearly see…"

The prosecutor stopped him. "Exhibit C, your honor. A clip shot by a Mr. Marcus Leibovitz on the twenty-second of March. We would like your permission to play it for the court."

Christine had not paid much attention to the large television on the far side of the room. It was quite expansive and she watched with interest as one of the bailiffs extended it from the wall to be more easily viewed by the jury.

The footage was grainy, and for a minute the clip was solely of the newest opera, and Christine forgot that they were attempting to identify a potential killer. Instead she tried to remember the pieces that her father had played, seeing if she could recognize which opera they were set to perform.

The music was beautiful, spritely and lively, and for a moment Christine wished she could have followed in her father's example and joined a company of her own.

But all too suddenly one of the elaborate backdrops plunged to the stage, and while the chorus screamed and the lead got caught beneath the stretch of heavy muslin and wood, amongst muffled expletives the boyfriend wildly scanned the upper registers for anything suspicious.

Until a figure all in black filled the screen, his body long and impossibly lean, a mask covering his face as he watched the chaos below.

The television switched off abruptly.

"So you're shown this video, but how did you know that it was actually the accused? After all, he _is _wearing a mask."

The detective was quiet for a moment. "The PI, Nadir, he… showed us where the defendant was apparently living. The mask from the video was there as was… he."

The way he hesitated, the way he resolutely refused to look at the man being accused, suggested to Christine that there was more to the situation. Her attention drifted to the defendant. His head was slumped as were his shoulders, and she could just make out the firm grip of his hands held within his lap.

Yet the prosecutor did not press for more information but instead sat down, a satisfied look on his face.

"Mr. Chagny, I'm afraid cross shall have to wait until after lunch. Hungry jurors don't make the best listeners so we shall reconvene in one hour. I will remind all of you that speaking about the trial is strictly prohibited outside of the jury room, so keep your opinions to yourselves. Court is in recess until then."

Christine had kept the top sheet of her legal pad blank so that she could be sure that no one could see her notes unless she offered them, and she set the papers to rights and stuffed it into her purse.

"Got any lunch plans?"

Christine pursed her lips as Richard addressed her, still slightly annoyed that he had continued to whisper to her during the trial.

"Yeah, I do. See you back in an hour."

She felt bad about being so curt as she hurried out of the courtroom, but she didn't know how to avoid talking about the case and she certainly couldn't afford any of the restaurants around here that he might want to try.

She went up one flight of stairs to avoid any of the personnel who might recognize her and fished her phone out of her purse.

It wasn't anything fancy, just the cheapest option she could find. It didn't do any of the newfangled things like she often saw patrons using, and she wouldn't have it at all except for when she realized that job applications required a provided phone number.

She flipped it open and turned it on, and to her great relief there was a message from the restaurant. She was nervous as the automated voice spoke into her ear, but the dread quickly released to almost hysterical relief.

"_Hi, Christine, it's Ewan. I talked with Carlotta and while she isn't happy about the arrangement, she's willing to give you a try on dinner service. You'll have to be here at six sharp and you'll work 'till closing, and your performance slot is at eight. You're a good worker, Christine, and I hope this will help you out. Just… don't be late and try your best. I want this to work out for you."_

Christine was ashamed to feel tears prickle at her eyes. Dinner provided the possibility of more tips as husbands and boyfriends treated their dates to expensive wines and desserts that were otherwise passed over during lunch.

There would be little time for anything else over the next few weeks between getting to the courthouse so early and going so quickly to work afterward, but it would be worth it. She would still have an income and that thought alone comforted her enough to traipse to a small sandwich store a few blocks away as she treated herself to one of the tasty looking options.

It felt good to have a few moments to herself to collect her thoughts. Her own troubles temporarily aside, she couldn't help but go over the bits of the trial she had seen thus far. There was something off about the detective, something that she hoped the defending attorney would uncover. They had been told the day before to focus only on the evidence put before them and put aside information that was skipped over or denied to them, but she didn't understand how she could form a proper conclusion when something was so obviously wrong.

She wanted to save part of her sandwich for later, but she knew that the meats would not hold up well to several more hours hidden away in her purse so she forced herself to eat until she was overly full, her stomach almost protesting the heavy feeling. But still, she was grateful for the meal as well as the brisk walk in the midday sun that staved off the crisp autumn air.

The court was late to begin yet again but it gave her time to give Ewan a quick call and thank him profusely for helping her.

Christine had thought that the quick walk back to the courthouse would have occupied her legs enough that she would be happy to sit for the rest of the afternoon. Instead she found the opposite to be true. She felt antsy and restless and she was almost grateful when the bailiff finally appeared and ushered them back to their seats, hopeful that the trial would distract her from her disquiet.

And then she felt horribly guilty for using a man's trial for murder as a distraction from her own impatience.

The defendant was still seated at the desk, his attorney beside him rifling through a large stack of disorganized folders. She wondered what he had for lunch. The accused's frame would suggest that he did not eat much and she found herself wanting to know if that was by choice or simply a lack of opportunity. Compassion swelled within her at the thought and she bit her lip against it, remembering the warning the prosecutor had given them about allowing empathy to cloud the facts.

She couldn't dream up a history for this man. She didn't know him or his past and making assumptions about it based on her own fantasies was wrong.

Christine pulled out her notepad and doodled about in the margins, wiling away time until the judge returned to resume the proceedings. Her drawings were typically dreadful, but she found that with enough strokes of her black pen lines that vaguely began to resemble flowers would eventually appear and she found them rather pleasing to look at.

Before long however she felt the prickle of someone watching her and she glanced at Richard from the corner of her eyes, thinking he wanted to speak to her again. But his attention was on the paperback crime novel resting in his lap, the only noise the gentle turn of the page every so often.

Her gaze returned to the accused—to Erik. No matter what the prosecutor said, it couldn't be wrong to remember he was more than a judicial identifier. He was a person with a name and conscience. He was a man, just like any other, if she lost sight of that then how could she hope to reach the proper conclusions?

His attention made her nervous and she quickly looked back at her doodles, but no matter how she told herself to ignore him—surely he would lose interest eventually—she found herself peeking upward to see if he still stared.

And every time he was.

He had placed his elbow on the table and held his head in his hand, peering at her with his strangely colorless eyes. While at first she had thought that his eyes were simply missing in the sunken nature of his skull, she realized now that they were merely heavily shadowed, making his stare all the more unsettling.

Her heart began to race from both nerves and curiosity, and although she reminded herself firmly that he was on trial for blackmail and _murder_, she felt her lips rise ever so slightly at the corners, a soft smile sent his way.

He made an awkward lurch as he forcefully turned away from her direction.

The judge entered the courtroom and after they once again rose in deference to his authority and returned to their seats, he bade the trial continue.

The detective returned to the witness stand and Mr. Chagny followed, standing directly before the officer.

Christine thought his tie was even uglier up close.

"Detective Mifroid, you say that the very mask from the video was discovered in my client's possession."

"That's correct."

"And how do you _know _that was the mask worn during the incident at the theatre?"

The detective's eyes narrowed. "The mask was fairly unique. The manufacturer is a high end designer and only makes a few of them a year."

"A few of them… meaning that other individuals in the country could have one."

"Not as many people in the country have as good a _reason_ to wear one."

Christine's eyes widened and she was glad to see Mr. Chagny's deep frown. "I will presume you are referring to the fact whoever was in that video was in the process of trespassing and wished to conceal his identity, and _not _suggesting that my client should be forced to hide his disfigurement."

The detective shrugged. "Take it however you want; I think we all know the truth." He glanced briefly at the jury and Christine wanted to retort in indignation that she would not make a foolish decision based solely on his appearance, but she forced herself to remain silent.

"So merely because my client possessed _a _mask from this manufacturer, you determined that he terrorized the opera house. And by extension, you presume that because of this alleged involvement, he was the one to enter the Poligny's home and dispatch with one of the homeowners."

"Objection, your honor, does Mr. Chagny have a question for the witness or is he wanting to testify himself?"

He looked ready to protest but the judge shushed him with a wave of his hand. "Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Chagny or save this for closing arguments."

He grumbled something inaudible before returning his attention to the detective. "Is there in fact _any _direct evidence that my client was the one to kill Mr. Poligny?"

The detective scowled. "Sometimes a case isn't wrapped up in a neat little bow. Sometimes you have to infer what happened from what facts are available."

Mr. Chagny smiled thinly. "Answer the question, Detective Mifroid. Is there any direct evidence or is it merely circumstantial?"

"I suppose if you're going to use those exact terms, the evidence in this case is more circumstantial than direct."

Mr. Chagny's smile became far more genuine, and Christine briefly thought him handsome. "Thank you for your honesty, Detective. I have no further questions for this witness."

A clerk rose from her small desk and quietly climbed the steps up the judge and whispered in his hear, a sticky note in her hands.

He looked rather surprised before clearing his throat and addressing the room. "I am terribly sorry but I have an emergency that requires we stop for today. We shall convene again tomorrow at nine. Court is in recess."

And with that he hurried from the room, leaving a single bailiff to shuffle the rest of the bewildered occupants from the courtroom.

But as Christine shuffled past the defense table she couldn't help but glance once more at Erik, and this time he met her gaze, a small smile on his own lips that looked terribly rusty and unsure.

And she could do nothing but offer one in return.

* * *

Sooo… a smile! That's a start at least, right?

Do you think that was Erik's mask? Do you think it's fair that he isn't allowed to wear one during the trial?

I probably should have mentioned this before, but reviews get a snippet from the next chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

Just spent the day babysitting 12 month old twin girls… I'll just pass out now…

But first! I'm sorry, I should have done this before but to those of you who do _not _spend inordinate amounts of time watching crime shows, here's a quick glossary of terms I have/will/may use throughout the trial.

COD: Cause of death

ME: Medical examiner

PI: Private investigator

Perp: Perpetrator

I'm trying to stick with more "realistic" dialogue which includes the lingo. I can't think of any more at the moment… but if you see one and don't know what it means, don't hesitate to ask!

But for now… Onward!

* * *

IV

Christine couldn't stop thinking about the shy smile the defendant—_Erik—_had given her the day before. Already she could see how difficult it would be for her to remain completely impartial as her heart went out to him and his innocent demeanor. That didn't mean he wasn't guilty of some sort of crime, she was not so naive as to believe that, but there was something almost childlike and bashful about him that stirred an emotion deep within her.

And so far she had been unable to identify what it was.

Despite her preoccupation with thoughts of Erik, she had slept remarkably well the night before. She was grateful for the sleep as starting today she didn't know when she would feel rested again. Between the trial and dinner service she was likely to be utterly exhausted before long, but she was grateful for the work all the same.

She walked through the door of the courthouse and the security guard smiled at her before rifling through her proffered purse. He quirked an eyebrow at her curiously at the lumpy addition of her work uniform to her already full bag. "Big plans later?"

She laughed dryly. "Hardly. Just moonlighting as a waitress now that I've found my true calling as a juror."

The guard chuckled, passing her bag back to her. "Pity. A girl like you should be out having fun with a boyfriend after having to listen to all this morbid stuff."

Before she could respond and ask how he had known to which jury she belonged, another person stepped through the metal detector and his attention was diverted.

The guard was middle aged and a wedding ring adorned his hand so she didn't think he was trying to be flirtatious—if anything he seemed genuinely concerned for her.

She sighed, wondering what it would be like to have a man to count on—to take her to restaurants and buy her flowers, and think she was something special.

Christine sank onto the same step she had frequented the day before and brushed away a tear hurriedly.

She knew what that was like because her papa had loved her so, and still she carried an ache in her heart from the loss of him.

People always looked at her oddly when she confessed she had never been on a date before. She did not think that twenty-one was really so terribly old, but she supposed that many had dated and been in relationships throughout high school. Her papa had always told her to wait until she was older and to, "Leave those boys at school to percolate a little before you think about accepting a date. They don't know anything about life yet, least of all how to treat you right."

She had believed him.

Some people even accused her of lying about her lack of experience—though who would actually do that she didn't know—while others offered unnecessary assurances that the right man would come along some day. She had not meant to imply that none had offered, but every time she even considered getting close to a man, especially in a romantic sense, she became all the more aware that she wouldn't survive losing another that she loved.

So she would politely stutter through a rejection, always feeling guilty at the sad smile left on a once hopeful face.

Unlike the day before, the court convened much closer to the appointed time—although a reason for the abrupt ending to yesterday's proceedings was not supplied. While the judge still frightened her, she did hope that if the note had indicated a family emergency that it hadn't been anything _too _serious, and not simply because the added strain would make him even more gruff and intimidating.

She knew what an unexpected death meant, and she wished it upon no one.

The judge briskly entered the courtroom, waving off the bailiff before he could even attempt to announce him and bid everyone rise. "It is my hope that we can get through quite a bit of testimony today so let's skip over the niceties, shall we? Counselor, your next witness?"

The prosecutor looked a little startled but covered it quickly as he stood behind his desk. "Of course, your honor. The State calls Mr. Abdul Nadir to the stand."

Christine had avoided glancing in Erik's direction so far, knowing that her steadily growing compassion for him would impede her judgment if she allowed it to. But even so, she couldn't help stealing a single peek and for some inexplicable reason she was almost disappointed that he wasn't looking at her with that small hint of expectation as he had yesterday. Instead, he was staring at the man approaching from the waiting room, Erik's expression almost one of… annoyance?

Only a few days ago he had seemed nearly catatonic as he stared down at the empty desk top, and she wondered if his sudden emotionality was a positive thing or not.

After the witness had been sworn in, the prosecutor approached, a polite smile on his face. "Good morning, Mr. Nadir. Thank you for joining us here this morning."

The judge cleared his throat. "I said we were _dispensing _with niceties, Mr. Sorelli. I can assure you I was including you in that statement. Let's get to the testimony."

Christine saw a flicker of a scowl cross the prosecutor's face but he hid it quickly. "Yes, your honor." He turned back to the witness. "What is your relationship with the accused?"

Mr. Nadir shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes moving toward Erik briefly. Erik had stopped looking at him, but almost in a pointed manner—something that apparently did not go unnoticed by Mr. Nadir, who frowned faintly.

"I was… _am… _his friend of many years."

Christine made another note at the almost wistful way he referred to Erik. No matter the facts of this case, it was obvious that something personal was involved and she was uncertain how that would influence the ruling.

"And what is your profession?"

"I am a private investigator by trade."

"Please explain to the court how you came to be employed by the late Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne."

Mr. Nadir leaned back in chair, his hands steepled in a mimicry of relaxation. "I was approached by those two gentlemen after some of the stagehands complained about props going missing. Nothing overly troublesome, in my opinion, but in conjunction with the letters and threats they received, they were beginning to become nervous."

"Objection, your honor, the witness cannot attest to their state of mind."

"Did they specifically _tell _you that they were growing nervous about the letters?"

Mr. Nadir gave a half-shrug. "In my experience, men rarely admit so bluntly when they are afraid. In the case of Mr. Poligny, he preferred to refer to my services as a 'safety precaution'."

"Hm… objection sustained."

The prosecutor grunted. "Very well then. When you actually began investigating at the opera house, what did you begin to uncover? Was it simply carelessness on behalf of the staff or was someone behind the mishaps?"

The witness shook his head. "Not all of it. The incidents were too frequent and too precise to have merely been accidents. No one was ever injured, which in it of itself was rather suspicious if negligence was at work." He glanced in Erik's direction. "Some know how to create fear without physical harm."

Christine made a note how Mr. Nadir's words had no effect on Erik's expression.

"So the nature and result of the supposed _accidents _led you to believe that someone was behind them?"

"That is correct, especially when…"

The prosecutor quirked an eyebrow at Mr. Nadir's hesitation.

The man sighed. "I uncovered a tunnel within one of the dressing rooms. It was filled with various traps and I… unfortunately managed to trigger one of them. Erik came to look into it almost immediately."

"And how did you know it was him? Was his face uncovered?"

Mr. Nadir chuckled dryly. "There is no mistaking Erik, mask or no. He can be quite… unsettling when it so pleases him."

Christine tried to look at Erik critically. There was nothing pleasing about his face, that was absolutely certain, yet all she could think about was the trembling smile he had given her and her heart quickened yet again. Yet pushing that aside, she was certain that if she was within the confines of a darkened tunnel and a man of his great height approached with a mask covering his face, she would be thoroughly intimidated.

The prosecutor appeared almost excited by Mr. Nadir's response. "Were you afraid that he would hurt you? That you life was in jeopardy?"

He frowned. "Our relationship is… complex. Erik has threatened to kill me many times over the years but if you are asking if I truly believed he would carry out that threat, my answer would be no."

Mr. Sorelli was mildly surprised. "Really? You were in a dark tunnel, your whereabouts unknown to any other person, and you admit that you had stumbled into a booby trap already, yet you did not believe that the man responsible would _harm _you?"

This time there was a hard edge to the man's voice, and Christine found it a curious change. "Erik has had a difficult past, and I expect him to respond defensively. I had intruded upon his home and I was prepared for him to react to that invasion."

The prosecutor scoffed. "His _home. _If the other charges were not already so severe I would have added trespassing to the list of offenses!"

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn, your honor."

The judge pointed accusingly at Mr. Sorelli. "Counselor, you will keep a civil tongue in my courtroom. Now is not the time to confuse the jury with additional accusations.

"My apologies to the Court."

Christine's opinion of the prosecution was rapidly diminishing. His suit might be very fine and he exuded competence, but there was something… arrogant about him that made her question his own biases. While of course an attorney must strive to do their job as proficiently as possible, he seemed to relish the notion of Erik being put away.

Did that mean by the end of the case his guilt would be more than clear or was Mr. Sorelli merely blinded by his prejudice?

She hoped something concrete would provide her an answer.

"You previously stated that you have known the accused for many years. Did you suspect him to be involved before you accepted this case from the victim and his partner?"

Mr. Nadir shook his head. "Not at all. I was not even aware Erik was within the state. It was uncommon for us to be in contact for any significant duration and he moved frequently, but as things began to happen within the theatre I did begin to suspect that perhaps he was involved."

"Thus you began to search for secret tunnels hidden in the walls?"

The witness smirked. "Just exploring every eventuality. If it was indeed Erik who was _haunting_ the theatre, it would not be unheard of that he would make certain… alterations to the structure to suit his needs. Or at the very least he would exploit whatever tunnels and hidden passages had been boarded up over the years."

"So your suspicions were confirmed when you did in fact locate the accused within one such tunnel."

Mr. Nadir simply nodded.

"And what was the nature of your conversation? Did he reveal any of his plans to you?"

"It wasn't like that. He told me how surprised he was to see me in the city and asked why I had wandered into such 'an unpleasant little hole.' Then he released me from the trap and suggested I restrict my coming to the opera during performances."

"Yet you didn't take that as a threat?"

Mr. Nadir looked at the prosecutor incredulously. "He had just pulled me from a coffin made of concrete. If anything I would call it a word of wisdom, not a threat against my person."

Christine jotted down another notation in her notepad. Why was he a witness for the prosecution when he seemed nearly… reluctant in his testimony?

Mr. Sorelli returned to his desk, rifling through one of the neatly stacked folders. "In your official police statement you confirmed that Erik was a danger to the theatre and its patrons. Would you like to amend that account?"

With an almost pained look upon his face, Mr. Nadir shook his head. "Erik can be unstable. When I heard about the death of Mr. Poligny I knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Erik likes to be valued and obeyed and if they crossed him…"

He trailed off and hung his head, but Mr. Sorelli wouldn't allow his declaration to go unfinished. "What, Mr. Nadir? What would he do?"

The man's voice was quiet but the microphone placed upon the rail of the witness stand made his words perfectly audible to the jury. "It would not be beyond my belief that Erik would kill someone should they flout what he considers his authority. He is a brilliant musician, of that there is no question, and to him it might seem that he was… _helping _the theatre with his interference. If they disregarded him, I could see how he would become… enraged. I'm sure I don't need to tell you what men are capable of when they lose their tempers."

Mr. Sorelli smirked. "No, you certainly don't." He glanced back down at the folder before walking back to the witness stand. "What prompted you to make Erik's presence known to Detective Mifroid?"

Mr. Nadir was silent for a long moment, and it was plain to Christine that he was choosing his words with the utmost care.

What was it about Erik that made these witnesses so careful with their testimony?

So long was he quiet that the judge intervened. "Did you not understand the question, Mr. Nadir? For I would remind you that you are under oath and it is required that you give an answer."

He swallowed thickly. "We had an… altercation. I wasn't satisfied that Mr. Poligny's death was an accident and when I asked Erik about it he laughed. He said that sometimes men were forced to take extreme action when they were cheated. He was so… withdrawn, far more than usual, and I knew then that something was terribly wrong and felt it necessary to contact the police."

Christine frowned down at her notepad. If the case for extortion was true, his comment would make sense if the victim had ignored his demands and he had grown angry. She hadn't even been to that particular opera house but she had heard her father complain about management at his own theatre enough times to know how frustrating musicians could find businessmen who thought they understood the arts.

But to take a man's life because of it?

This time when she glanced at Erik he was staring at her. He did not try to smile at her and for that she was glad because she didn't think she could muster up even the semblance of one for him, not when she felt such disappointment at his apparent confession.

They eventually broke for lunch and Christine dug through her purse collecting what few coins remained to raid the vending machine for something resembling food of nutritional value. The granola bar was hard and sticky, but she forced herself to eat it, feeling strangely despondent as she sat on her lonely step and wished that things could be different.

She made a quick trip to the water fountain and ladies' room before court resumed for cross examination.

Christine couldn't wait for the hurried dinner service to take her mind off the trial.

Mr. Chagny approached the witness stand, smoothing down his electric blue tie as he went. Christine decided that focusing on the way it remarkably brought out the color in his eyes was far preferable to trying to decide if Erik was indeed the murderer he was accused of being.

"When my client made this comment to you allegedly in reference to the victim, did you believe it to be a confession of his guilt?"

Mr. Nadir's face took on a pinched appearance. "Clearly, otherwise I wouldn't have involved the police."

Mr. Chagny's expression turned into one of mock surprise. "Really? Tell me, in this apparent friendship of yours, how do you see yourself?"

The witness's head cocked to the side. "I'm afraid I do not understand the question."

The defense council smiled thinly. "Pardon me, allow me to rephrase. Do you believe that my client is a good man? Do you believe the best of him or do you think that it is your responsibility to keep him in 'check' as it were?"

"Objection. Is there a point to all of this?"

Mr. Chagny turned to the judge. "I assure you there is, your honor."

The judge waved his hand. "Keep it snappy, Mr. Chagny. Continue."

"My question is the same, Mr. Nadir."

His brow furrowed, his tone thoughtful. "I think that… Erik is the product of some horrific experiences." He glanced at the jury. "As you can imagine he hasn't been… widely accepted by the world due to his deformities. Because of this I worry for his conscience and do try to steer him toward being more compassionate to others."

It happened so quickly that she may have imagined it but Christine could have sworn that Erik gave the tiniest of eye rolls.

She made a note of it.

Mr. Sorelli stood quickly. "Your honor, surely Mr. Chagny is not going to suggest that a murder charge can be dismissed because someone had a rotten childhood."

The judge glanced at the defense. "Well? Is that your intention?"

Mr. Chagny barely suppressed a huff of irritation. "Of course not, your honor. If the prosecution would allow me to finish he would have a much better understanding of my case."

The judge sighed. "Mind your tone, Mr. Chagny and sit down Mr. Sorelli. You may proceed."

The defense council took a brief moment to collect himself before returning his attention to the witness. "You said that you were concerned for my client's conscience. Is this because you believe him to be incapable of empathy?"

Mr. Nadir's lips thinned. "I didn't say that."

"In fact, you testified earlier that these 'accidents' around the theatre resulted in no injuries… that, allegedly, they were specifically designed so that none would be harmed. If my client were in fact the one to have orchestrated these events, does that sound like someone who cares nothing for the wellbeing of human life?"

Christine certainly didn't think so. Someone callous and selfish didn't care who they hurt, they were solely preoccupied by their own interests.

Like the man who had killed her papa.

It was too inconvenient for him to leave his car at the bar and hail a taxi home. So instead he decided to risk the lives of everyone around him and drive while severely impaired—and she would live with the grief of that choice for the rest of her life.

"No, it doesn't."

Christine couldn't help but notice the genuine surprise on the man's face as he made the admission. She was not an expert on friendship by any stretch of the imagination. There had been one girl she was fairly close to in the group home, but Meg had aged out of the system much sooner than Christine and they had lost touch. But what she did know was that it was important to think well of people, especially if you considered them your friend, and it seemed odd to her that this man would be so surprised that Erik was not as cruel as he supposed.

Perhaps more than the jury needed to be reminded that Erik was not a monster.

Mr. Chagny's voice gentled and he took a small step forward. "Could it be that your past experience with my client has influenced your expectation of him? That maybe you heard what you wanted to hear instead of what he actually meant?"

The witness shook his head slowly. "I didn't _want _him to have committed this crime!"

"I would not suggest that you did. Only that sometimes when we expect certain things from someone, we have a funny way of making them come true."

Mr. Nadir's expression hardened. "When the police and I travelled further into the tunnels we located a room which appeared to be where Erik was living. There were masks there, one identical to the one the man wore in the video. I hardly think it fair to suggest that I made all of that up!"

The defense attorney backed away slightly his hands raised placating. "I wouldn't presume you did. I only suggested that your perception of what these things _meant _could be tainted by your history with this man."

The judge interrupted. "Jurors, just to make things clear, certain details of this witness's testimony have been deemed unfit for your hearing as they could unduly influence your opinion of the accused. You are to base your decision on the evidence presented in _this _case, not any alleged past wrongdoing. Understood?"

The jury murmured their assent before the judge motioned for Mr. Chagny to continue.

"Would you say that your confidence in my client's guilt is based more on intuition or in evidence? And please, consider your answer carefully before speaking."

Mr. Nadir appeared slightly resentful but to his credit he did seem to weigh his words carefully. "My experience in this profession has taught me many things and while I do fully believe that Erik is guilty… I will admit that instinct plays a large part in that assurance."

Mr. Chagny nodded, a satisfied smirk on his face. "Thank you, Mr. Nadir; I have no further questions for this witness."

The witness left without even a parting glance in Erik's direction.

And with a heavy heart Christine found herself wondering how Erik must have been treated by the rest of the world if he could so easily be discarded by a man who called himself Erik's friend.

* * *

Sooo… Who's mad at the Persian? Do you think he could have a good reason for "betraying" Erik by testifying? Or should we just string him up right now? After all, is _any _reason good enough? I'll give you a hint, my answer is no…

But we'll have to wait and see if he can at least provide an attempt at a good enough reason…

Also, anyone notice that's the first time in a story I've given him a name? This is certainly the story of firsts for me!

Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

Umph, putting on a luncheon at church has left me exhausted so I shall simply say thank you for reading and reviewing and alerting and favoriting and know that I love hearing from you! Makes eeking out my last bits of energy to write and post all the more worth it.

Onward!

* * *

V

Christine was exhausted.

Dinner service was surprisingly smooth, although she was not entirely sure she liked having more couples to serve rather than the business clientele she was used to. On more than one occasion she received dirty looks from wives and girlfriends should they catch their significant other staring at her scant cleavage as she placed his order down on the table, and one time a woman had followed her to the kitchen to yell about how inappropriately she was dressed as she demanded another server.

Ewan had stepped in immediately and demanded she leave before allowing Christine a few moments in the office to collect herself before returning to finish her shift.

The last few days of the trial had been a bit more tedious. They had a DNA expert that had been called that confirmed that sweat found on the masks discovered in the opera house had been worn by Erik. A few of the performers had even offered testimony, claiming to have seen him wandering about the halls or peeping into dressing rooms.

"His eyes glow in the dark, you know!" Miss Jammes was a dancer at the theatre, or so she had stated. "I saw him watching me after rehearsal one night, staring as I took off my leotard."

Christine had glanced at Erik, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Miss Jammes had initially shuddered when she walked past him to the witness stand, but her eyes were quick to stare at him, repulsion and fascination overtaking her in equal measure.

She felt a little sorry that she had such a difficult time believing that the girl had been subjected to such things, but she was fairly certain that if one _had _suffered a frightening experience such as seeing a man—or a ghost as Miss Jammes had initially insisted—there, it would not induce the level of excitement she displayed. Genuine fear, certainly, or perhaps indignant outrage at having endured such an invasion, but not a thrill.

Her weekend had been fairly quiet and since she had no shifts to occupy her time she had spent most of it sleeping. A trip to the grocer had been the most exciting excursion and she happily noted that it was a less stressful experience when one had extra tips to help pay for necessities.

But the following week had negated her restful weekend and she was back to feeling exhausted and worn out. She felt horribly guilty about almost nodding off the day before, and she even risked the murmured _thank you _to Richard for prodding her gently on the arm so she had not further embarrassed herself. Erik deserved a proper trial, not one tainted because she couldn't keep her eyes open.

He hadn't looked at her for quite a while now. Sometimes she thought she felt his eyes on her but every time she checked, he was once more staring at the desk before him. At first she wondered if she had done something to offend him but then chastised herself thoroughly for such thoughts. She was on the jury for his _murder _trial, and now was not the time to be making friends with the accused.

The judge had been acting strangely for almost a week now. They never did disclose what emergency had called him away, but one of the other jurors said she overheard the bailiff's talking and they seemed to think that something strange had happened to his daughter, but no one knew exactly what.

Today they were listening to a Mr. Joseph Buquet regale the jury with a near death experience at the hands of an alleged madman.

"What is your position at the opera house, Mr. Buquet?"

He pushed a lock of greasy hair away from his cheek and Christine grimaced. While she tried to think the best of people, truly she did, she valued a kempt appearance, and there was something… off… about this witness. His eyes were too bright, his smile nearly menacing, and although she was ashamed to admit it, she didn't think she would have any difficulty believing that _he _was capable of peeping in at women's dressing rooms.

"I'm the senior stagehand for the theatre. Worked there fifteen years and seen a lot of funny business up in the rafters too."

Mr. Sorelli smiled. "I'm certain you have. But what have you seen about this man in particular?"

Mr. Buquet glared at Erik, his lips pulled back almost in a snarl. "Was toward the end of last season. I was a little late checking the rigging and one of the scenes dropped and when I went to investigate, I saw _this _man," he pointed a gnarled and dirty finger in Erik's direction, "standing there all smug before he dropped a letter onto the stage below."

"And what happened next, Mr. Buquet?"

The man coughed noisily into a gray rag that he tucked back into a pocket. "I ran forward to catch him. I wanted to be sure management knew that I wasn't to blame for the scene fallin' and I won't lose this job!"

Mr. Sorelli nodded in sympathy. "Would you say that you got a good look at the man?"

Mr. Buquet scoffed. "I'd certainly say so! The man tried to strangle me! A rope came out of nowhere and went about my neck and his eyes came up all close, glaring and hissing like the demon he truly is. I'd swear on my good mother's grave it was that man sittin' right there."

Christine didn't know if his mother was really good or not, but she still didn't think he should be swearing on her grave.

"How did you get away?"

"Not because of some sense of mercy, I can tell you that! I must have managed to make some ruckus because George, uh, another stagehand came running up and must have scared the devil off because the next thing I knew I could breathe and George was askin' me if I was alright."

The prosecutor's face took on a look of apparent concern but Christine thought he merely appeared rather sick. "And were you? Did you see a physician to assess your injuries?"

Mr. Chagny rose swiftly. "Your honor, not that I am unsympathetic to any injury this man has sustained over the course of his long… service," Christine was not oblivious to the slight look of distaste that the defense attourney had for the witness, "I must ask what the relevance is to this case. My client has been charged with the murder of Mr. Poligny, not an assault upon this man."

Mr. Sorelli was quick to argue. "I beg to differ, your honor, this clearly relates a pattern of violent behavior that could easily have escalated to homicide if not for the intervention of another."

The judge's lips pursed. "Proceed carefully, Mr. Sorelli. The accused is indeed charged with only one murder, and I won't have you misleading the jury with tales of an unsubstantiated crime that wasn't even reported."

Mr. Sorelli grumbled lowly before repeating his question to the witness.

Mr. Buquet glanced at the judge briefly before looking downward and shifting slightly in his seat. "Uh, no. Doctors are expensive, and other than a bruise on my neck there was hardly any need to involve a... hospital."

Christine could understand someone's fear of hospitals—she doubted that anyone truly _enjoyed _being forced to visit one, especially when a hefty bill was soon to follow with possibly no savings to cover the expense. But there was something about this man's demeanor that suggested that the cost was not necessarily what concerned him most about seeking medical assistance.

She made a quick note of it.

Eventually the prosecutor sat and the judge allowed Mr. Chagny to proceed with questioning.

It was a testament to how her life had changed that one of her favorite moments of the day was seeing what interesting tie and shirt combination Mr. Chagny selected. Today he favored an almost sickly green shirt, the tie a swirling mass of silver and whites with the occasional shocking emerald dot to offset the otherwise pale colors.

Christine wondered where on earth he found such strange clothing.

"Mr. Buquet, it must be difficult for you to recount such a harrowing tale."

"Objection!"

The judge sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Chagny, I realize you are fairly new to the law, but sarcasm is not a way to win a case."

He nodded his head in apparent supplication. "My apologies, your honor."

Christine wondered at what point Mr. Chagny would run out of the apologies he so readily gave and the judge would simply throw him out of court.

She would miss his ties if it came to that.

But then she tried not to giggle when he flicked his hair slightly off his shoulder before making another attempt at examining the witness.

And for the first time that day when she looked in Erik's direction he met her gaze; a small frown on his face. Did he not like her smiling at Mr. Chagny's eccentricities?

Despite his disapproving expression, she was gratified to see that the bruises that had adorned his features when the trial first began had all but disappeared and no new ones had taken their place.

Hopefully that meant he was now in safer accommodations, wherever that might be.

"Mr. Buquet, do you have a drug problem?"

The witness glared as the prosecutor rose in protest. "Your honor, this is hardly relevant!"

Mr. Chagny appeared nonplussed. "It goes to the character of the witness, which I believe highly relevant since his testimony apparently suggests a violent streak within my client."

Christine thought that the judge rolled his eyes as the vehement display by the counselors before he waved his hand. "You may proceed, but let's leave behind the theatrical objections, shall we? This isn't a courtroom drama."

Both men murmured their assents before Mr. Chagny asked his question again.

"I most certainly don't have a drug problem."

Mr. Chagny returned to his desk and placed a folder before the witness. "Do you know what this is?"

Mr. Buquet glanced at it dismissively. "Some kind of report."

The defense attorney smiled almost mockingly. "Very good, Mr. Buquet. In fact it's an arrest report from July of this year. _Your _arrest report."

"I'm sorry, your honor, but the witness is not on trial here. Even a man with an alleged drug abuse problem can experience an act of violence!"

"Just sit down, Mr. Sorelli. Your indignant outrage is noted."

He huffed in his chair and Christine didn't miss the triumphant smirk on Mr. Chagny's face.

"That was all just a misunderstanding. The meth wasn't mine."

"Of course it wasn't. But in fact you were arrested and charged, and are awaiting a trial of your own, isn't that correct?"

Mr. Buquet scowled. "I'm not talking about that without my lawyer!"

Mr. Chagny raised his hands defensively. "I would by no means ask you to incriminate yourself. But you mentioned that you were concerned that if the theatre discovered you had neglected your duties you would be fired. Tell me, are you in fact still employed at the opera house?"

The scowl deepened. "No."

"And what was the nature of your termination?"

He huffed impatiently. "Some falsified drug test. One of the junior stagehands was jealous of my position and framed me. I got fired 'cause of him!"

"You got fired because of testing positive of methamphetamine use," Mr. Chagny corrected, though Christine supposed because of the slight rise in his tone toward the end that he was disguising it as a question so Mr. Sorelli wouldn't interrupt again.

"That's the official reason. Didn't get no severance because of it either."

Mr. Chagny shook his head in a semblance of sympathy. "Are you aware that prolonged use of methamphetamine can lead to heightened paranoia and hallucinations?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Your honor, I would like to submit into the record an affidavit from a Mrs. Mildred Buquet, mother of the witness, who swears that she has witnessed methamphetamine use by her son for almost a decade."

"Don't you bring my mother into this!"

"Your honor, I must repeat, the witness is not on trial!"

All of this was spoken at once and eventually the judge was forced to quiet the communal outburst with swift use of his gavel. "All of you sit_ down _and be quiet!"

So loud and firm was his voice that Christine cringed a little inside, hoping that she would never be faced with hearing such instruction directed at her.

This time he did not give either of the attorneys permission to continue questioning the witness but instead turned to the man himself. "Mr. Buquet, I believe I understand where Mr. Chagny is going. Is there anyone that can substantiate the attack on your person? This… George perhaps?"

Mr. Buquet rolled his eyes. "We all thought this madman was a _ghost._ Of course he disappeared before anyone else saw him! Only I was a threat enough that he would try to kill me, I'd seen him blackmailing the managers."

The judge frowned. "So you believe that in no way were you faculties… compromised during this alleged event?"

"I didn't imagine it, that's for sure! It was painful as all hell and I know it was that rat bastard that did it to me!"

The judge coughed slightly. "Alright, that's enough; I think we've heard enough from this witness. You may step down, Mr. Buquet."

The clerk stepped forward and she and the judge spoke quietly for a few moments and Christine was grateful as it allowed her time to write out a few of her thoughts about the rather strange Mr. Buquet. One glance at his teeth suggested that there was nothing _alleged _about his drug use, and she rather thought that a doctor should take a look at his lungs as there was something terrible about the way they rattled.

But could he really have imagined himself being attacked? He had said that it was a demon that tried to kill him, yet he was also emphatic that it was Erik. Didn't they say that Erik typically wore a mask?

She was terribly confused, and she remembered how adamant during their initial questioning of the jury that they be able to suspend formulating their opinion until the end.

But her intuition screamed that Mr. Buquet was not to be trusted, and how could she ignore that? Of course it was perfectly reasonable that he should deny any drug use as surely the transcripts of this trial could be used for his own, but what if he had lied about being attacked at all merely to avoid facing blame for neglecting his job when an accident had occurred?

Christine wished that she could at least talk to the other jurors and see if any felt as she did, for at the moment she was confused and isolated and no matter how much she scribbled on her notepad she kept returning to the first page and what she had scrawled along the top line.

_Erik is not a monster._

It seemed silly really to keep coming back to such a simple thing. But the more testimony she heard, the more she believed it, and she hoped—_prayed—_that she wasn't just being gullible.

"Off for the day then, Miss Christine?" She was a little surprised that the same security guard from the morning shift was still there once the court dismissed for the day, but she smiled at him tiredly, although a small feeling of unease prickled that he knew her name.

"I suppose I am. The judge seems to be in a worse mood every day, and apparently can only take so much bickering between the attorneys." She hesitated, trying to gather the courage to ask how he knew of her, but he cut in quickly.

"You've been looking a little tired the past few days; it's not good for a girl your age."

She grimaced ruefully. "I would tend to agree with you but I've got to work the late shift to make ends meet." So many tables, so many people she met in a day, yet this man acted as though they were somehow acquainted…

"Oh! Have I served you before? It's just… you know my name and I couldn't think how…"

His smile seemed a bit forced, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, it's hard to forget a face like yours."

She highly doubted that but she felt reassured that there wasn't anything nefarious at work. If he recognized her then it was simple enough that he would ask one of the court clerks which trial she was on—nothing suspicious about that.

"Well, have a good evening then, I've got to get across town."

His lips thinned for a moment before he leaned across the counter dividing them, his expression grim. "Please be careful, Miss Christine."

The feeling of alarm returned. "What do you mean?"

He sighed and took a step back. "Nothing. You just seem very alone in the world and I would hate for someone to take advantage."

His tone suggested more of a warning than a personal threat but still she hastened out the door and kept careful watch of her surroundings as she took the bus to work.

There was nothing unusual about the homeless man that approached her begging for change before cursing at her when she tried to explain that she had none. Or about the well dressed business man who bumped into her a block from the restaurant, giving her a half-hearted apology before carrying on his way—regardless of the fact that her purse had spilled open and she had to scramble for items before they were trampled by pedestrian feet.

Just as always, it made her feel invisible.

And while sometimes she relished in her aloneness, sometimes she wished that someone would just _see _her. See the girl whose parents had died too early, see the young woman who struggled every day to ensure she had enough money for a place to live and food to eat. And most importantly, see the person who just wanted to be loved.

She changed quickly into her uniform in a bathroom stall, being careful to ensure that nothing fell and no unprotected bit of skin touched the tile floor. She knew that Ewan had convinced Carlotta to employ a very proficient cleaning staff to come in after hours but Christine wasn't about to take any chances.

Her shift went smoothly enough. No one yelled at her and the head chef even let her have an untouched ramekin of crème brûlée that one of the diners had sent back for appearing too sugary.

Not that they'd even tasted it to find out.

Christine thought they were ridiculous as she savored every bit of crunchy topping and sweet custard, but she was grateful for their finicky tastes all the same as it meant she got to enjoy an unexpected treat.

She was therefore unprepared for when Ewan called her into the office, and she was doubly nervous to see Carlotta sitting at the desk.

"Hello, Christine. Have a seat."

Christine wiped her hands nervously on her black uniform pants before doing as she was told.

"Is there a problem?"

"Have you asked any of your tables to contact me?"

Christine's brow furrowed. There was nothing she would have been _less _likely to do. Hardly anyone ever contacted management with a glowing review and she would certainly do anything in her power to keep them from complaining about her service.

"No, ma'am, I haven't." She swallowed. "Did I do something wrong? I don't remember anybody in particular complaining about my service…" Not wholly true but that was more about her as a person and cheating spouses and not her promptness to bring more wine and supply their order.

Carlotta clicked her fingers on the desktop, her gaze still one of suspicion. She stared for a long moment before sighing and shoving a handful of letters in Christine's direction. "Do you recognize those?"

They were all in differing handwritings, some far more legible than others. She pushed them back gently. "No."

"So you didn't write them?"

Christine's mouth dropped open. "Why would I complain about myself?"

Carlotta collected the letters and shoved them into the bottom desk draw, clicking her tongue all the while. "I never said they were complaints, Christine. Evidently some of your regulars from lunch have started coming for dinner service and want to know why you no longer sing."

Christine thought she could breathe again, though her befuddlement still remained. She knew people enjoyed her performances but not enough to come specifically to see her.

She swallowed. "I had no expectations, ma'am. I'm grateful you even let me try dinner service at all and I respect that you have rules about seniority on who gets to perform."

Carlotta's lips thinned. "Quite."

Ewan cut in after glancing at both ladies, both unwilling to speak next. "In an effort to keep our regulars happy Carlotta has agreed to put you on rotation starting next week. It's just a test run of course and you'll still go back to lunches when your trial is over. We wanted to be sure you had the weekend to prepare."

Christine nodded numbly. She missed singing, but she was too overwhelmed with the strange turn this conversation had taken to do anything but thank them both politely and head home in a near daze.

And it wasn't until the next morning that she noticed the single red rose just outside her front door.

* * *

Sooo… who thinks that Erik was peeping on Little Jammes? And what did you think of Joseph Buquet's testimony? Is he to be trusted? Did the drugs make him think that someone was trying to kill him or was Erik actually there? Seems like he slipped up on whether or not his mother was alive so maybe he's not the most reliable witness…

And what about that rose showing up on her doorstep? Who could it be from? Looks like she has a secret admirer...

I'd love to hear what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

To those of you who I responded to late, I am so terribly sorry! I've had a rather overwhelming week and things definitely slipped because of it. But I will try my best to get back to you more promptly next time! I know I don't like to wait for snippets…

Now, onward!

* * *

VI

Christine didn't know what to think about the mysterious rose on her doorstep. At first she felt little as she picked up the luscious bloom, only a lingering sense of confusion. It was not the kind so often displayed in the market, but was full and fragrant, the deeply hued petals warm and enticing.

Not wanting to be late for court she quickly deposited it in a water filled cup and left it on her small dining table.

No one had ever given her flowers before and she could not afford such a luxury, so she did not have a vase to offer her new rose. It leaned against the glass heavily but at least it would stunt its withering—or at least, she hoped it would.

It was probably meant for a neighbor as a token for a first date that had gone very well, and the newly besotted beau had merely mixed up the apartments.

She tried not to sigh wistfully at the notion.

But as she entered the now well-known courthouse and the guard who had been so friendly with her before smiled at her almost knowingly, she started to feel a moment's trepidation.

What if it _was _meant for her?

Rarely did people know where she lived. It was in her personnel folder at work so someone could have looked it up there if they really wanted to know her whereabouts, but she trusted Ewan completely and it seemed highly unlikely that Carlotta would care enough about an employee to even exert the effort of looking.

Which meant that if someone had wanted to gift her with the lovely rose, they had followed her.

The guard's previous warning about how alone she appeared flittered through her mind. Would someone really want to harm her?

She was nothing special—was beyond most people's notice.

Christine couldn't help but hug herself a little more tightly as she waited on her usual step for the court's doors to open and the trial to commence.

No, it was much nicer to think that the rose was simply a mistake. She wasn't close enough to any of her neighbors to ask such personal questions as to their dating history to see if it should be restored to them—and in reality, a few of the occupants in the surrounding apartments frightened her.

And while perhaps it would be prudent to dispose of the flower as soon as she went home in case it was given with any nefarious purposes, she couldn't bring herself to consider actually doing it. Regardless of the intent of the giver, the rose itself hadn't done any harm… It even had been stripped of its thorns to specifically ensure it would _not _cause any unintended damage.

Christine tried to ignore the other jurors milling about and making small talk. Things about the inconvenience of driving to the in-law's for family dinner and a child's birthday party that cost far too much and would promptly be forgotten the following week seemed so wonderfully _normal—_and it only furthered how overwhelmed she felt.

How she envied it all.

Before long however the bailiff appeared and ushered them to their respective seats. So caught up was she still in her own thoughts that she clipped the corner of the balustrade that contained the jury box and she ungracefully sprawled across the empty chairs.

Richard had shuffled in first as first chair and after staring at her blankly for a moment he lurched forward and offered her his arm. "Christine, are you alright? That was quite a tumble!"

Christine was sure her cheeks were crimson and she was grateful that no one else had yet been seated lest she have experienced the added mortification of ending up in someone's lap.

A bailiff quickly approached also, the younger of the two she had seen. "You alright there, Miss? Do you need some help?"

She didn't think her face could grow any redder, but at his obvious concern and rather bewitching eyes her embarrassment found a way to increase. "I-I'm fine. Thank you. Just a bit clumsy, that's all."

She allowed Richard to help her back to her feet and she carefully made her way to her chair, hoping that no one else would inquire after her and that the judge would enter soon so everyone's attention would be diverted to something of actual importance.

But soon that familiar prickle settled on her and she couldn't help but glance up at Erik, wondering how he would react to her mishap.

Surely a murderer would derive some kind of pleasure at another's embarrassment or potential injury. Perhaps not all were sadistic, but if someone could so callously take the life of another, then it stood to reason that they lacked empathy in other areas.

But his eyes were the picture of concern even as he peeked at her from beneath long lashes, his hand still trying to cover as much of his face as he could.

She smiled at him ruefully and gave a tiny shrug, hoping he would understand that she was not hurt beyond her slightly bruised pride and a protesting shin.

Suddenly his free hand that had been gripped tightly into a fist upon the desktop opened and he placed it over his heart before he gave her a barely perceptible bow, another of his bashful smiles in place as he regarded her from the defense table.

And she couldn't deny that her heart melted just a little at his action.

Maybe it wasn't prudent to engage with a defendant during a trial, but it was not as though she had ever spoken with him. And Christine thought these little glimpses into his mind were important—that it provided as much evidence to his character as any witness' testimony.

"He sure looks at you a lot."

Christine's attention snapped away from Erik's as she glanced guiltily to Richard. "What?"

"The defendant. Don't think I haven't noticed him lookin' at you. Gives me the creeps. If he carries on anymore I'm going to inform the bailiff. You would too if you're smart."

Christine frowned and was saved from having to respond by the judge's entrance. He seemed to be in a slightly better mood today and he allowed the bailiff to call out the formalities he had denied for almost a week.

She hoped this meant that things had improved for him at home.

"Good morning, everyone. It appears that our fast pace the last few days means we're ahead of schedule! I am given to understand that the prosecution has expended its witnesses and evidence, is that correct, Mr. Sorelli?"

He stood with an almost apologetic smile on his face, and Christine hoped whatever he was about to say did not damper the judge's brightened disposition. "My apologies, your honor, but the State now believes that it is important to hear from the wife of the victim."

The judge's displeasure was palpable. "Why the sudden need to bother a new widow?"

Mr. Sorelli grimaced but Christine thought it a valid question. During the trial against the man who killed her papa it had been suggested that she testify about her father's character, but ultimately she had proved unfit.

Evidently it was important to be willing to speak when called as a witness.

"The jury deserves to hear more about the victim of this terrible crime, your honor. Who can provide a better picture of the man's state of mind than his own wife?"

The judge made a muttered sound that his microphone did not quite pick up, but ultimately relented.

"The State calls Ms. Jennifer Poligny to the stand."

Christine had been hoping to hear from Mr. Poligny's business partner as he seemed to be the one who would know most about the extortion they were supposed to be assessing.

But instead a smartly dressed woman took the stand, her pale hair pulled back in a becoming twist, her lips a bright crimson.

She was most certainly younger than the deceased—that was extremely obvious.

"Firstly, Ms. Poligny, I would like to extend the State's sincerest apologies for your loss."

The woman nodded her head graciously before rifling in her very expensive looking handbag and pulling out a lace trimmed handkerchief that she clutched tightly in her perfectly manicured hand.

"Thank you."

"I understand that this is a very difficult time for you and I hope giving your testimony will not prove too taxing."

The judge made an audible sigh and the prosecutor grimaced—the unspoken message to hurry things along readily apparent to all parties.

"You were the one to discover your husband's body, were you not?"

She nodded. "It was the worst experience of my life. Edgar was a wonderful husband and to see him… slumped over like that. He never would have taken his own life! Never!"

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief but from Christine's vantage point in the jury box it was clear that there were no actual tears that would have required the action.

She had expected an older woman, with signs of actual pain at her husband's passing and although she felt bad at her seeming lack of compassion for the woman's plight, her emotions appeared so forced and not at all genuine that she could not help but be suspicious of her.

"What did you do next?"

She sniffed loudly. "I called an ambulance. I'm not a complete idiot and I could see he was dead but… no one ever tells you what to do when your husband is lying dead across his desk! Do you proceed with funeral arrangements? Call a lawyer? What if they had thought _I _had done something? To deal with such things when already overwhelmed with such grief was too much to even consider."

Christine doodled a rather rudimentary castle in the margin of her notepad, certain that this testimony was going to take all day if she felt the need to justify each of her thought processes.

"What was your husband's state of mind in the days leading to his death?"

Mr. Chagny rose quickly.

"Sit down, counselor. She's the man's wife and would presumably have known him quite well. I think it's safe for her to give an interpretation of his demeanor."

The defense attorney looked slightly put out but obeyed.

"He was… distraught. Almost frightened sometimes, especially when he received the last letter."

"Did he show you this letter?"

She plucked at a bit of lint on her navy suit. "He usually tried to keep such unpleasantness away from me. Didn't like to talk much about the business either." This she added in low, bitter tone and Christine stopped her drawing to make a note of it. Was she resentful that her husband didn't share more of his life with her?

"But I admit I was curious about what had him so upset, so a day or two before he died I went poking around his office and found it. It was different from the others… more ruthless. The others were more implicit in their threats while this one was very blatant."

"And what did this letter relate?"

Her hands twisted the handkerchief tightly. "If Edgar didn't give the man twenty thousand dollars by the end of the week, he was going to come to the house and hurt him."

The prosecutor glanced at the jury. "Let the record reflect that this letter has already been entered into evidence."

The judge waved his hand dismissively. "It is so reflected."

"Did your husband have that kind of money available? Is that why he was so nervous?"

Ms. Poligny shrugged. "I was not given access to the business accounts. He could have been broke for all I know; I _still _don't have access to it even after he died. Claude is the sole proprietor now."

The prosecutor's lips thinned; a peculiar reaction in Christine's mind. "Just answer my questions directly, Ms. Poligny."

She smiled wanly. "Sorry. I do not believe that he had access to that kind of money. At least, he wouldn't let me recover the living room furniture claiming that money was tight, so I presume things were actually dire."

She gave the jury a simpering smirk. "He didn't often say no to me."

Of course not. Not when she was easily twenty years his junior and was one of the most sophisticated women Christine had ever seen.

"After learning about this threat, did it ever occur to you to call the police?"

She shrugged. "Not really. When one's husband is wealthy and important there are a lot of disgruntled people—especially in the theatre. The arts do attract a certain _type _of person you know…" She glanced at the prosecutor meaningfully.

While Christine was disgruntled at her insinuation for the sake of her father, she could not pretend not to have some appreciation for a bit of truth. Creative types could often be flamboyant in personality, with delicate egos protected under layers of bravado and demands.

"Anyway, just last year he had to let one of the lead performers go. She threatened to cut his… well… _you know _off if she wasn't immediately reinstated. People just say things in the heat of the moment."

Mr. Sorelli nodded reassuringly. "I'm not accusing you of doing the wrong thing, Ms. Poligny. So you did not take the threat seriously, but did your husband? Did he speak to you about it?"

She grimaced. "It was the morning before he died… was killed. He came to me and said that he thought the madman meant it that time—that if he didn't continue to pay that he really would kill him. I guess he received a phone call while I was at yoga and it had shaken him up pretty badly."

"The State would like to enter the Poligny phone records into evidence, your honor. It clearly indicates that on the third of April a pay phone was used to contact their residence at 10:22 in the morning and lasted for less than a minute—plenty of time for a threatening message to be relayed."

"Objection, your honor! This might be evidence that a call was made but it does nothing to indicate the content of that call. It could have simply been a wrong number!"

The judge turned to the witness. "Ms. Poligny, when your husband mentioned this call, what did he say exactly was told to him?"

For the first time she actually looked genuinely disgruntled at the topic. "Edgar… said that a strange voice on the telephone asked if we had a gun." Her lips formed a tight line. "I didn't like it, not one bit, but after the house was robbed a few years back Edgar insisted on it—said it would protect me. As if I would ever use such a thing!"

Mr. Sorelli smiled at her encouragingly. "The telephone call?"

"Right. Well, apparently when Edgar told the man on the line that he did indeed have a gun and was trained in how to use it, the voice just laughed. Then it asked if he was _sure _where it was being kept."

"Where was the gun usually stored?"

Her brow wrinkled—or at least, Christine thought it attempted to but was impeded by any number of injectable substances. Then she immediately felt guilty for having such ungracious thoughts.

"He kept it in the top drawer of his dresser. Just in case, he said. Needless to say I stayed out of _that _particular drawer."

"And did he check after the call? Was the gun still there?"

She shook her head definitively. "No. That was when he began to panic. It was missing and when I tried to assure him that he likely misplaced it he… yelled at me. That I didn't understand; that everything was falling apart. My husband was _frightened."_

She was quiet for a moment before she sighed deeply. "I should have told him to call the police—to report the gun missing. That I didn't think his fears were ridiculous... not when… not when he's _dead_ because of…"

Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and although that niggling guilt continued to grow, Christine found herself looking carefully for signs of actual tears.

There were none.

"No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Chagny, do you have questions for this witness?"

He rose steadily and Christine distracted herself from her discourteous thoughts by focusing on the lavender hued tie and grey shirt that gave him a rather sickly appearance. She almost smiled wondering if his sense of fashion came from a misguided inner sense or if some woman in his life exacted her revenge by picking out such _unique_ combinations.

"Ms. Poligny, were you faithful to your husband?"

Her head rose sharply. "_Excuse _me?"

"Objection! Relevance?"

Mr. Chagny smoothed out his charcoal suit, seemingly unconcerned. "I think it highly relevant, your honor. Her faithfulness goes to their intimacy as a couple and her ability to accurately interpret her husband's reactions."

The judge gave a rather dubious look. "And you're certain this isn't a fishing expedition to cast suspicion on another suspect?"

The defense attorney's expression was the picture of innocence. "Hardly."

"Fine. But tread carefully, Mr. Chagny, she is a grieving widow."

He nodded in supplication before approaching the witness stand. "The same question, Ms. Poligny. Were you a faithful wife?"

Her face took on a pinched appearance. "Whatever arrangements I had with my husband are strictly _our _business, not this sham of a trial."

"_Was_," Mr. Chagny interjected forcefully. "Perhaps it _was _your business but now a man is dead and it is our responsibility to explore all avenues. But perhaps I shall phrase it another way. What is your relationship with an Emil Gutiérrez?"

She glared. "He was our landscape designer last year—designed a beautiful pergola and rock garden by the south lawn. And before you ask, it was strictly a professional relationship."

Mr. Chagny smiled. "The defense would like to submit this sworn statement by Mr. Gutiérrez that they engaged in no less than twelve sexual liaisons over the course of their _professional _relationship."

Her glare became even more ferocious. "Then he's lying."

"Or perhaps _you _are lying. Tell me, after the dust had settled were you glad that your husband could no longer frown upon your extramarital affairs?"

"No!"

"Your honor, he's clearly badgering the witness!"

The judge made to interrupt but Mr. Chagny pressed on.

"Are you glad he's dead?"

"He was my husband!"

"And yet in Mr. Gutiérrez's statement he vividly remembers how you complained about your husband—how you stated you would leave him if a pre-nup wouldn't have denied you alimony after the divorce!"

"Alright, _yes._ Are you happy? We had our problems, like _all _couples do. And maybe I retaliated by having an affair now and again. But that doesn't mean I wanted him dead, and that certainly does not imply that I was somehow involved in it!"

All was quiet in the court for a long moment and Christine stared blankly down at her notepad, unsure of what to write. Could there really have been some other plot at work? Perhaps a jealous lover decided to dispatch with an older husband, all under the guise of a blackmailer. They'd get money _and _the wife in one swift action.

Was Erik's presence at the theatre merely a coincidence?

When Mr. Chagny spoke again his voice was low and carefully controlled. "Do you know the accused, Ms. Poligny? Was he one of your dalliances?"

Her mouth dropped open. "_That_? You think I'd sleep with _that?_"

Christine glanced quickly at Erik only to find him tracing light patterns on the desktop with a pale fingertip, his shoulders slightly hunched.

Anger mixed with pity welled within her. He should not be subjected to hearing such things, no matter his supposed crime. He was still a human being, and to be referred to as less than a person…

She wanted to give him a hug.

But such was impossible so she forced herself to return her attention to the witness.

"It is a fair question, Ms. Poligny. I'm asking if you have any type of personal relationship with the accused."

Her nose crinkled in disgust. "None. I've never seen that man before."

"Not around the theatre? Not in your home? He might have been wearing a mask." He went to his desk and pulled out a picture, holding it so both the witness and the jury could see it. It was nearly impossible to tell _who _might be beneath it for it covered every inch of flesh. But the eyes staring out from beneath were not colorless—were not the hauntingly sad eyes of the defendant, but were a normal hazel.

"I should certainly think I'd remember something like that! And my answer is the same, I've never seen that around _any _of the places I frequent."

Mr. Chagny smiled almost triumphantly. "I have no further questions, your honor."

The judge sighed. "Excellent. Then the court is in recess."

And as Christine shuffled by the table where Erik still sat, she found that he looked nearly as despondent and lifeless as the very first day of the trial.

And she had to clench her hand tightly to keep from reaching out and laying a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

For even if no one else remembered, she knew.

He was still a man and deserved far better than this.

* * *

Sooo… does hearing from the widow change your mind? Does Erik seem more or less guilty to you now? Do you think that something else is going on?

And do you think Christine should be doodling during the trial? I don't know about you, but while I'm a terrible 'artist', my notebooks all through school were covered in scribbles.

Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts! You help keep me writing even when my schedule threatens to drown me.


	7. Chapter 7

Many thanks for your continued encouragement! Just a couple questions that have come up that are probably worth addressing en masse.

First of all, as of this moment, I do plan on us getting a more intimate look from Erik's perspective, but don't expect it to be for a while yet. Don't want to spoil any surprises! And just a… reminder, while this is my _plan _I'm not the greatest… well… planner when it comes to stories. But I should eventually get to that point!

Secondly, about updates. This is actually a question I've been meaning to pose to all of you. Those who have read my other stories while I was posting them, I've always been a twice a week updater on specific dates/times. So far I've been updating this story willy-nilly… is that working for you, or would you prefer a set day? I can only promise weekly updates since I'm writing two stories at once and the other requires attention too, but if you want to weigh in on preferences (even which day is best for you in terms of reading and… well… reviewing *stares pointedly*) I'd love to hear it!

Okay, enough from me. Onward!

* * *

VII

Christine was nervous about the upcoming day. The judge had opened the proceedings by making the prosecutor swear that he would rest his case and allow the defense to have a turn, and to everyone's relief he was indeed ready to concede the floor to Mr. Chagny.

But that step took them closer to deliberations, and Christine did not think she was at all ready for that.

Despite what Mr. Sorelli had reminded them again and again, her opinions were beginning to solidify—the foremost that something deeper was going on. The witnesses were all nervous, all far too ready to blame Erik with little knowledge of his existence beyond rumors and ghost stories told to titillate the theatre girls.

And while she told herself that her focus should be solely on the trial and its intricacies, she could not help but feel apprehensive about making her debut performance to the dinner patrons.

When not sleeping and trying to recuperate from her lack of sleep and free time over the past week, she practiced her singing. One of her neighbors, a particularly intimidating fellow whom she had not opened the door to, had heard her in the hallway and had banged on her door to, "Stop that classical racket, this ain't junior high!"

Needless to say she was not as practiced as she would have preferred.

The trial had been going for almost two weeks now and she wondered how accurate the three week estimate would really be. Were there truly so few witnesses to help Erik's side of the case that everything could be completed by Friday?

While the prospect of the trial ending and her regular life commencing should have filled her with a sense of relief, now she only felt slightly despondent—no more shy smiles, no more studying Mr. Chagny's strange attire…

She would go back to casual friendships at her job and quiet solitude the rest of the time.

And somehow that did not seem so appealing any longer.

"The defense would like to call Dr. Edward Clark to the stand."

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, this witness was only added to the list three days ago—hardly enough time for us to properly prepare."

The judge's eyes narrowed at Mr. Chagny. "Any particular reason for the delay?"

The defense smiled almost apologetically. "Your honor, his testimony has only recently become pertinent. I can assure you, this was not a tactic to keep the State from prosecuting my client to the _fullest _extent of the law."

The judge rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. But I will take your word for it, Mr. Chagny, so objection overruled, counselor. The witness may approach."

The doctor was a tall man, and Christine could easily picture him in a white coat that would have nicely coordinated with his thickly rimmed glasses. He was approaching middle age and was a relatively good looking man. His face was beginning to show signs of wear, possibly from his profession, but there were crinkles at the corners of his eyes that showed he was not unfamiliar with smiling and she was glad of it.

He twisted his wedding ring nervously around his finger as he took the stand and gave his word that his testimony would be truthful.

"Dr. Clark, thank you for taking the time to be here this morning, I know you're a very busy man." It felt a little odd to have Mr. Chagny allowed to speak first, but she was certain she would grow used to it quickly.

"My job has many facets, and I suppose this is one them. Can't say that it's my favorite aspect of it though." He glanced apologetically at the judge, who smiled back grimly.

"And for the sake of the jury, what precisely is your profession?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm a doctor at the Medford Psychiatric Hospital. The defendant… Erik… was recently brought to my facility and I have met with him several times."

"Were you involved in his initial assessment for eligibility for trial?"

He shook his head. "No, that was performed by the prison psychiatrist."

"Dr. Clark, are you aware of what my client is being charged with?"

The doctor's lips thinned. "Murder and blackmail."

Mr. Chagny nodded his confirmation. "In what condition was my client in when he was brought to your facility?"

Dr. Clark sighed. "He had suffered multiple contusions, especially along the face and torso. The guards who had overseen his transfer said that he was _clumsy,_ but it was obvious that such wounds were from a fist. Apparently some people took exception to his appearance in prison."

"Objection, your honor, the doctor can't possibly know the motivation of any alleged attackers."

"Sustained. Keep your testimony to your observations, doctor."

He cleared his throat again. "Fine. The wounds were suspicious and in my _professional _opinion, they were caused by a fist, not an accidental tumble down some stairs."

"Had you seen the initial report by the prison psychiatrist?"

He nodded again. "Yes, it was a part of his intake form. He was described as being nearly catatonic. He would cooperate in the basic sense, mostly to keep from being touched unnecessarily, but he wouldn't speak and he barely ate."

"And yet your colleague believed him fit to stand trial."

Dr. Clark grunted. "He is hardly my colleague, but yes, evidently he was deemed aware enough of his surroundings to be held accountable for his supposed actions."

Mr. Chagny smirked. "You sound doubtful that he committed these offenses. Why is that?"

"Erik is… showing remarkable changes in the short time he has been meeting with me. He has begun talking, and while he is not the most… forthcoming of patients, his intelligence is notable. Honestly, the messy nature of the case is what concerns me. It seems almost… beneath him."

"Beneath him… what specific examples do you have for the court of Erik's intelligence?"

Mr. Sorelli interrupted, "Your honor, whether or not the accused is _smart _isn't the question."

The judge waved away his concern with a dismissive gesture. "I'm going to trust there is some relevance to all this and I would like to hear what the doctor has to say. Continue Mr. Chagny."

Christine didn't miss the rather triumphant grin that Mr. Chagny sent to the prosecution.

"Examples, doctor?"

"I cannot give you specifics exactly as the confidentiality of my patients is paramount. However…"

He glanced in Erik's direction. He didn't look up from the desk and Christine was sorry to see that the weekend away from insulting witnesses and hurtful comments had done little to lift his spirits as he continued to stare at anything but the people surrounding him.

"I have a patient… let's call him Marcus. He stopped eating a few days ago and no matter the intervention of the staff we couldn't get him to communicate what had suddenly changed. I was going to have to have him sent to the infirmary and insert a feeding tube but then in my next session with Erik, he tells me that a spider had laid an egg sack in Marcus's room and the babies went crawling all over… burrowing in his bedding, creeping through cracks in the walls, that sort of thing. I changed Marcus's room location and he's eating more than ever."

"Does Erik room with this patient?"

Dr. Clark shook his head. "He's nowhere near him. They share one meal time, but the nurses say they've never seen an interaction and there is also a communal recreational class that most patients are compelled to attend."

"And that is?"

"An art class. Erik is quite proficient; some of his drawings are the best I've ever seen."

Mr. Chagny paused for a moment, seemingly to collect his thoughts. "So how do you account for this knowledge?"

The doctor hesitated. "Despite the report of Dr. Houser, I believe that Erik is indeed capable of connecting with people—with understanding their motives. He has keen observational skills and he knows how to use them to their best advantage. That is what I mean that this crime appears beneath him. I believe that if Erik wanted to commit a murder that we wouldn't be here today trying to determine his guilt."

"So he is observant, but do you believe that this is also evidence that he is able to show care to other individuals?"

The doctor nodded. "He didn't have to tell me what was wrong with Marcus. I never would have asked as I don't commonly discuss other patients during a session. Yet he voluntarily brought up another man's suffering and suggested how it might be alleviated. In my experience, that is not something a man incapable of empathy would do."

"Has he spoken to you about this case?"

Dr. Clark's brow furrowed slightly. "I cannot breach confidentiality unless I believe someone to be in imminent danger—which is not the case. What I can say is that when I have brought up the subject, Erik has laughed at it."

An eyebrow rose. "Laughed? An odd reaction."

The man shrugged. "It wasn't a malicious laugh, as one might expect from someone who has committed a malevolent crime and feels the need to gloat. He found the entire thing more… absurd that he was actually being accused of it."

"In your opinion, doctor, is this man a danger to society?"

He was quiet a long moment but answered before he could be prompted again. "We are all capable of wrongdoing. Erik has suffered a great deal, one look at his initial medical assessment will tell you of great abuses he must have endured. But I do not believe that he is a man without conscience or that he is unaware of his actions. If he truly did commit these crimes then he should be held accountable. However, it is my firm conviction that he did not in fact kill Mr. Poligny."

Mr. Sorelli stood to object to something but Mr. Chagny interrupted. "No further questions, your honor."

The judge nodded. "Very well, you look about ready to say something, counselor, care to share with the class?"

The prosecutor smiled grimly. "Indeed, your honor."

He approached the witness stand with slow, methodical steps, a direct contrast to the impatient expression on his face. "Dr. Clark, are you a mind reader?"

Mr. Chagny's mouth opened but the judge waved him off. "Don't bother. Mr. Sorelli, keep things civil in my courtroom."

"My apologies, I will rephrase. Dr. Clark, would you seriously like us to believe that because of a singular case wherein the accused was able to notice baby spiders in a patient's room, he is somehow too intelligent to have committed this crime?"

The doctor looked mildly impatient himself. "I do not expect you to believe anything. I merely have spoken on what I have observed during Erik's time in the hospital. I was under the impression it was left to the jury to decide on its validity."

His tone was sharp and pointed, and Christine decided that if ever she required mental health services, she would most certainly ask for this particular doctor.

Then she promptly hoped she would never, ever have to seek him out.

"And do you have any evidence that Erik did _not _in fact commit these crimes? Can you provide an alibi? Another suspect?"

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Then really all you can offer if your opinion. I wasn't aware we had begun utilizing personal belief over evidence when it comes to convictions. I'll have to let the DA know."

"Objection. Does Mr. Sorelli have a question?"

"Nothing further, your honor. I think the jury can see through all this… malarkey without more from me."

"Careful, counselor. You've had your turn with witnesses and now it's Mr. Chagny's. He's allowed to conduct his defense in whatever manner he sees fit _without _your additional commentary. Is that understood?"

"Certainly, your honor."

The judge didn't seem at all convinced, but he allowed the doctor to vacate the witness stand.

Christine was gratified to note that Erik gave him the briefest nod as he passed—the first true sign of his awareness since the proceedings had begun that morning.

She was reminded of her school days when a particularly long lecture did little to hold her attention and she would risk the teacher's displeasure in order to pass a note to her neighbor. Nothing scandalous, just a simple 'hello' scrawled across the page.

Christine wanted to give Erik such a greeting, just to see if he'd give her one of those sweet smiles again, but this time the consequences would be far greater than a stern look and a possible talking to.

Court recessed early that day so Christine had a little time to return home and change before work, and she was grateful for the reprieve—especially when she found her first check for sitting on the jury waiting in her mailbox.

With new exuberance over her unexpected income she listened for any signs that her neighbors were at home before practicing a few of her preferred pieces. If given a choice she would typically avoid love songs as they made her heart ache for things that as of yet could never be, but today she faced them bravely and found that she had missed her music over the past weeks without it.

The restaurant was quiet that night, with no diners that she recognized. Her coworker was busy with a table of eight businessmen, their suit jackets abandoned and their sleeves rolled up as they dined and made ample use of the bar service. Shelly flirted with them shamelessly, her desire to abandon waitressing to be some kind and rich man's wife a secret to no one.

But Christine didn't blame her, especially not since the gentlemen were all very nice looking and from the fine looking fabric of their suits they were gainfully employed.

Christine's own section had only an elderly couple, and while they were very sweet and polite to her, their meager selections meant she would not receive much of a tip, regardless of the percentage. Yet with the check from the court still tucked safely in her wallet she found that she didn't mind the emptiness of her corner, and she even convinced the chef to give them a dessert on the house as a celebration of their anniversary.

"Christine, it's your turn!"

Shelly had just finished her set and scooted Christine out of the kitchen. Another patron had settled into the far booth, but she would have to wait to take his order until after she had performed. If he grew too impatient then he would just have to flag down another waitress as Carlotta did not tolerate tardiness during the routines, regardless of a customer's needs.

Christine didn't quite agree, but she was not about to argue.

During lunch they used recordings to accompany the singers, and Christine had not sung with a live instrument since her father had died. While she was nervous about coordinating with another person again—especially one that did not know every nuisance of her voice like her papa had, she still was grateful that it was not a violin as she didn't think she could handle such strong similarities at the moment.

"Got a song picked out?"

Christine nodded and gave the page number in the approved song booklet that Carlotta updated every so often.

Travis was a good man, much younger than she expected initially. While they had never performed together, he would come in early to have a bite to eat and if one of her tables stayed particularly late she would be able to hear him as she waited to get off the clock.

He was in his late twenties and was very talented. She had asked him once why he chose to play at a restaurant instead of venturing into the more notable musical positions and he had laughed at her.

"I could ask you the same thing!"

She had blushed but did not feel the need to go into any of her more personal reasons for her choices. "I like my tips. Don't get many of those working for a theatre."

He grinned. "Yeah, I'm sure that's the reason. But I'll tell you, Christine, it's a mean 'ole world out there for performers like us and sometimes it's nice to get to play without a critic breathing down your neck."

Christine smiled. "Now there's just Carlotta."

His grin grew. "Exactly. And she's tough enough for me."

Today his smile was bright and genuine as he flipped to her chosen song. "Nice to see you finally join us here for dinner. I've heard people remark about how pretty your voice is—I'm looking forward to hearing it myself."

Her cheeks reddened and she made no reply, knowing it would only make her more anxious.

So instead she took a deep breath and forced herself to relax.

This was music.

This was what she shared with her papa and had once loved with almost her entire being.

None of the diners took particular notice, at least, not that she could tell. She closed her eyes for the most part and tried to _feel _the music as her father had instructed. He told her that the way to move an audience was to choose emotion of technical perfection—that few would know if you transposed the occasional note, but if it lacked authenticity, none would believe the piece.

Her set was short. Carlotta may have chosen to indulge the patrons who specifically requested she be allowed to perform, but that did not mean she was given many opportunities. She only sang two songs, and of her own volition she had selected some of the shortest options available.

Maybe in a week's time she would feel more capable.

But now as she finished her last note and a few of the sparse diners gave muted applause, she found herself regretting her selections.

It felt _good _to sing again.

Something in her seemed emboldened, as if sitting on Erik's trial and having the constant reminder that life could so easily be threatened based on the decision of a simple jury, there was no excuse for her to continue merely existing.

Her papa never would have wished for that.

Travis was going on his break and before she could go to the customer in the back and finally take his drink order, he pulled her aside.

"You were wonderful!"

She smiled shyly. "Thank you. It feels different having someone accompany me."

He chuckled. "I'm sure it does, and I hope you're able to stay on dinner service when your jury duty's up. I think you're a real asset to this place and it would great for other people to get the pleasure of hearing you."

She thanked him quietly before hurrying to her table, the performance still making her a bit jittery. Nerves had given way to a feeling of freedom and she didn't know what to do with the excess energy she now possessed.

The man who had entered just before her performance began had disappeared, presumably tired of waiting for service. If another of the staff noticed they would often explain that their waitress would be with them after the show, but Shelly was still preoccupied with her group of men and Christine doubted she would have noted a lone man in a darkened corner of the room.

She hoped he wasn't too upset about it.

The bank was long since closed by the time her shift ended, and she chastised herself for not having left earlier beforehand so she could have visited the ATM when it was light out. But still, she relished the thought of a lunch beyond the meager peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she had taken to bringing to the courthouse so before taking the bus back to her rather shady neighborhood she cashed her check, all the while looking about her to ensure that none took special notice that she now had cash in her purse.

Thankfully she saw no one.

The bus was a later one than she was used to, mostly empty except for some haggard looking people in work uniforms—some which looked like convenience stores and others more janitorial.

This one also made much more frequent stops than her usual, and she leaned her head tiredly against the window as they made slow progress across town.

Eventually they reached her stop and she held tightly to her purse as she hurried toward her apartment. The streetlamps had long since lost their bulbs making for long and ominous looking stretches of darkness, and tonight in particular she felt jumpy and uneasy. She felt as though someone followed her, her skin prickling at the knowledge that eyes were watching her, and she was never so grateful for seeing the slightly dilapidated building that made up her home as she quickly went up the steps and opened the outer door with her key.

But all sense of relief completely vanished when she reached down to pick up a single sheet of folded white paper, her heart turning cold at the words scrawled across the page.

_You have a beautiful voice, Christine. _

* * *

Sooo… looks like Christine has an admirer! And she's just not quite sure about it. Who do you think it was? Hmmm…

And what did you think of a look into Erik's stay at the psychiatric hospital? Did you expect him to be cooperative?

Also, don't forget to give your opinion on posting days! Your preferences matter to me!


	8. Chapter 8

We've got some theories going about who Christine's admirer could be! Most lean toward Erik while others question the security guard's motives... hmmm... We'll have to wait and see!

Now, onward!

* * *

VIII

Christine had taken the note and propped it up against the glass that still held the rose which was just now beginning to droop.

She sat and stared at it for a long while, her emotions not allowing her to consider sleeping. Not yet. Not when she hadn't decided if she should inform the police.

Her first thought had been that someone had followed her home from the restaurant, the eerie feeling of being watched still fresh in her mind. But the note had been waiting for her and someone would need a key to enter the building, so she had almost convinced herself that it was merely one of her neighbors who had overheard and was showing their quiet support, even when others banged on her door and demanded she be silent.

That must have been it. The rose had been a mistaken gift for another tenant while the note was not as nefarious as she had first supposed.

Yet even when she forced herself to change into her nightgown and climb under the covers, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was mistaken—that something deeper was happening and she was foolish not to immediately inform the authorities.

Would anyone notice if she suddenly disappeared one day?

The court would, surely, and that was a comforting thought in its own strange way. Maybe the security guard would be sent to her apartment to demand she show up for the trial, only to see that she had been abducted by some madman.

But in that case they would merely call in one of the jury alternates and maybe, if they were not too busy, they would inform the police that Juror Number 2 had been abducted.

Christine was tired of living alone—so tired of the uncertainty.

When the security guard gave her a thin smile and nod in passing that morning, she almost shuffled past without pressing any enquiries. On her way to the courthouse she had done her best to push away her own troubles so she could focus solely on the trial, but his warning from weeks ago returned to the forefront of her mind and she couldn't ignore it.

"Sir?"

He cast a slightly nervous glance at the guard beside him before gesturing her to follow him to the very edge of the desk. "Is there a problem, miss?"

"Do you know something?"

Maybe that was a ridiculous way to begin a conversation, but the way his expression morphed from anxiousness to pure innocence, and the way his shrug was almost forced in its nonchalance, she realized she had been right to ask so directly.

"Sorry, miss, but I don't know what you're talking about." He glanced at the clock behind him. "Hadn't you better be getting to court?"

She frowned. "You warned me. Weeks ago you told me to be careful, that some might want to take advantage of me. Why would you do that but not give me particulars so I can better protect myself?"

A portly man brushed past her and she had to clutch her purse to keep it from tumbling off her shoulder.

"I didn't mean anything by it, you obviously read too much into it. You just seem like a sweet girl and it's always best to be careful, especially if you live alone."

The knot of fear in her stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. "How do you know I live by myself?"

His eyes widened and suddenly his face hardened and he waved her onward. "Move along, miss, you're holding up the line. Just go up to the courtroom and listen like you're supposed to."

She stepped backward from the desk at his abrupt dismissal, and straight into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" And too late she recognized the oddly coordinated shirt and tie, as well as the just too-long hair.

He had grabbed her waist briefly to keep her from falling, but released her just as quickly. "Alright there?"

She blushed and looked to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Chagny, I didn't mean to."

He chuckled lowly. "No harm done. And now I have to offer an apology of my own. While I'd love to introduce myself properly, we're not allowed to speak outside of court."

She nodded vigorously. While quite a few of the rules did not make sense to her regarding jury ethics, she understood the importance of having no outside contact with the attorneys.

"I'll see you in court, Miss Daaé." And with a wide grin in her direction that she only managed to catch the end of when she gathered her courage to glance up at him, he hurried up the stairs and likely to his client.

This time her stomach twisted in a different way, unable to ignore his charming smile and gentlemanly behavior. She just hoped they wouldn't get into trouble because of her clumsiness.

Before she went up to the courtroom Christine took note of the guard's nametag and scribbled down _Officer Davies _onto her notepad. While he wasn't relevant to the case, there was something definitely off about him and if things escalated—and she prayed they did not—she would need a name to offer the authorities.

Christine's cheeks reddened again as she walked past the defense table and took her seat in the jury box, Mr. Chagny chuckling once again at her embarrassment. What she did not expect was the fierce scowl on Erik's face as he glanced at his attorney, for the first time his lips moving and evidently speaking to his lawyer.

She didn't know why but it felt rather shocking that he would speak—he was so stoic and apathetic for so long that for him to break his silence now was surprising. Mr. Chagny also looked taken aback, and she dearly wished she could hear what they were whispering about.

Eventually however, Erik looked mollified, though he still sent disgruntled looks at his attorney every so often.

"Hmph, at least he's glaring at his lawyer today and not at you."

Richard was lounging in his seat, his elbow almost encroaching on her own armrest, but it was his words that rankled her more than his casual demeanor. They _were _still in a court of law after all. While weeks of sitting and listening to testimony had made her relax somewhat from sheer necessity alone—for her back could not handle much more of her stiff and stringent posture—she still made every effort to dress appropriately and not forget the solemnity of their charge.

Others obviously took a different approach.

"He does not _glare _at me. If a group of twelve strangers were deciding my fate, I'd want to assess them too!"

Richard shrugged. "To each their own, but it's mighty naïve of you to think he's looking at the rest of us as much as he stares at you." He frowned thoughtfully. "Course, you are the prettiest on the panel and someone as wretched as him just might not be used to seeing a sweet face about."

Christine opened her mouth to offer her outraged reply, but the judge entered and she was not about to take a scolding merely because of Richard.

"Mr. Chagny, would you care to start us off?"

He rose and buttoned his suit jacket, giving Erik an uncertain glance before he schooled his features and addressed the judge. "Yes, your honor. The defense would like to call Claude Debienne to the stand."

The prosecution had submitted photos of the crime scene into evidence, but Christine wished they had been given a picture of Mr. Poligny alive and well so she could compare the two business partners. Debienne was younger than she expected, but probably not far behind the victim's sixty-one years of age. But he carried it well; his grey hair and dark suit a strong contrast that spoke of dignity and wealth.

But what struck her most was the way his eyes flickered about the courtroom. For all the measures he had taken to ensure his appearance was one of quiet composure, his expression belied the attire and his anxiety was more than obvious.

He was sworn in, his right hand trembling, before Mr. Chagny approached him.

"Mr. Debienne, how long were you partners with the victim?"

He swallowed. "Twenty-eight years. I couldn't have asked for a better friend and partner than Poligny, and his death has been most upsetting."

Mr. Chagny smiled grimly. "I'm sure. How would you categorize the relationship between your partner and his wife?"

"Your honor, we are all very aware of the defense's position on the Poligny marriage. Surely we don't need to hear it from this witness."

Mr. Chagny shook his head. "I disagree. By his own admission he is a close personal friend of many years, his relationship with the deceased lasting far beyond the marriage. His insight is valuable."

The judge groaned quietly and Christine couldn't help but smile. She had always thought that being a judge was a prestigious position, but with these two particular attorneys it seemed more akin to wrangling schoolyard arguments.

"Make your position quickly, Mr. Chagny."

He made his usual platitudes before returning his attention to the witness. "Their marriage, Mr. Debienne?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "They had their problems, the same as any couple."

Mr. Chagny smirked. "I'm not sure it's quite the same. But please give us some examples of what have you've witnessed."

The witness cleared his throat. "They… fought. But all couples fight, so that really isn't unusual at all. Me and my ex would have the biggest rows before the divorce. And after it, too, if I'm being honest."

"Were these fights ever physical?"

Mr. Debienne's brow furrowed. "Did Poligny ever hit Jennifer? No, never. At least, not that I ever saw, and she wasn't the type that would stay quiet about something like that—would have made sure the entire neighborhood knew if he'd raised a hand to her."

Mr. Chagny went to his desk and picked up a file. "Have you ever been to a hotel on… Stratford Street?"

There was no mistaking how some of the color drained from his face even as he quickly tried to cover his unease with a confused expression. "I have a home here in the city. Why would I need to make use of a hotel?"

Mr. Chagny eyed him sardonically. "I'm sure I cannot testify to your state of mind or how you choose to spend your funds. But I _do _have an affidavit here from the hotel manager, and he claims that he's seen both you and Mrs. Poligny enter his facility on multiple occasions. Now why would you do that?"

Mr. Debienne's mouth dropped open. "We were assured that hotel was discreet!"

The defense attorney chuckled. "That might be true, but I'm sure discretion is waved when a man is accused of murder. Now, were you having an affair with Mrs. Poligny?"

"It wasn't like that!"

An eyebrow rose in question. "Wasn't it? The record already reflects that Mrs. Poligny has engaged in at least one affair, so you're asking me to believe that she did not engage in sexual relations with you as well? What better revenge than to sleep with her husband's business partner!"

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, Mrs. Poligny's sexual history is not on trial here, and it is hardly relevant to this case!"

The judge hesitated. "Mr. Chagny, I asked you to move things along quickly. Is there a greater point to this?"

He nodded. "I can assure you there is, your honor. I was just getting there."

The judge hummed noncommittally. "Then _get _there, counselor. Objection overruled."

"If your meetings were not of a sexual nature, Mr. Debienne, what were they about?"

He sent a pleading glance at the judge. "Do I really have to answer?"

The judge's eyes narrowed. "Unless you are afraid of incriminating yourself of a crime, then yes, you are required to answer truthfully."

His lips thinned and his attention returned to the defense. "She was unhappy. We just… talked."

Mr. Chagny looked at him incredulously. "_About?_"

"Things! I don't know! She asked me what would be involved in a divorce since I was a part of drawing up the pre-nup. I tried to get her to seek some more… professional assistance, maybe some counseling would help them work things out, but she was so angry with him. She felt he excluded her from the business and that's a big part of our lives."

"And were you successful?"

Mr. Debienne appeared distinctly uncomfortable. "Not exactly. She stopped bringing up a divorce, but she… wanted to know a lot of what went on at the theatre. She took special interest in the rumor about a ghost living in the rafters." He waved his hand dismissively. "It was all very ridiculous."

"In her testimony she claimed that her husband took these notes very seriously. You did not?"

Mr. Debienne was quiet for a moment as he stared down at his hands before answering. "I can't say that I did. We caught a few of the understudies in the office once, placing notes and trying to play it off like the _ghost _had done it. Of course all they really wanted was a better part, and were taking advantage of a rumor to get it. So then when the last threat came…" He shrugged. "Why would I think it was any different? How was I to know which notes were from an _actual _blackmailer and which were simply hoaxes by the theatre company?"

"And that is why you did not contact the police, even after your friend expressed his concerns to you?"

He sighed heavily. "That's right. I tried to calm him down, remind him of all the pranks that had been pulled on us over the years. I… dismissed him. And I see now that it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life."

"Did you ever see my client depositing one of these letters?"

The witness cast an incredibly short glance at Erik before retuning his focus to Mr. Chagny. "I'd remember a face like that. And no, I never did."

Mr. Chagny pulled out the same photo he had shown to Mrs. Poligny, and Christine noted that the eyes still seemed wrong to be Erik's. "And what about someone in this mask?"

He stared at it for a long moment. "I… it was late one night and I was finishing up paperwork in the office. I was startled… I mean, it looks like death! But at the time… I was tired and many of our productions utilize masks. I didn't think much of it. Like I said, a lot of our employees are known for their practical jokes."

This time Mr. Chagny's smile was genuine. "If I told you that my client owned a mask, possibly even this very one," he held up the picture again, "would you therefore identify him as the man you saw?"

Mr. Debienne looked unsure. "I… suppose?"

Mr. Chagny held up another photo, this time with a young man holding up the mask beside his face, his hazel eyes easily recognizable from the previous picture. "And what if I told you that this was my paralegal wearing Erik's mask?"

"Your honor, this proves nothing!"

"Witnesses are claiming that my client is the one they've seen, when in reality it could be any man wearing a mask! I think that highly relevant to this case!"

The judge gave one harsh _bang _with the gavel and the room fell quiet. "Now, if you're all done shouting at me, while I might not approve of Mr. Chagny's slightly underhanded tactics, he makes a good point. Therefore I am allowing the photographs into evidence. Did you have more questions, counselor?"

"Just one, your honor."

"Very well, ask it."

Mr. Chagny moved closer to the witness stand and Mr. Debienne unconsciously leaned back in his chair. "Do you know who killed your partner?"

His mouth opened before he swallowed, his eyes once more darting about the courtroom. "No. No I don't."

"So you do not think it was this man, fueled by anger at having his alleged blackmail ignored?"

Mr. Debienne scowled. "I don't know _what _to think anymore. But if you're asking if even now I think that all the notes were genuine the answer is no. Do I think that someone maliciously broke into Poligny's home and shot him in the head, the answer is no."

"Well something did happen, Mr. Debienne, so what _do _you think took place?"

He was quiet for a long moment and the defense attorney had to prompt him twice more before he gave an answer. "I think that something awful has taken place and that I just wish we could all move past it. I lost a friend that day, and no court ruling is going to change that."

Mr. Chagny's voice lowered and he leaned forward, his expression one of compassion. "Do you believe that my client was the one who killed your partner?"

His face was almost agonized as he cast another quick glance at Erik, and Christine scribbled furiously in her notepad. His entire posture easily related that each word was carefully chosen for something was being carefully concealed.

"If he was in fact the one to send the notes, some of the genuine notes that is, all he wanted was the theatre to improve. On those occasions when we did as was suggested, things _did _go more smoothly. We sold more tickets, the reviews were better… but Poligny was afraid of catering too much to a blackmailer so sometimes we ignored it. The accidents that followed were just that: _accidents._ I have never seen that man, and I'm… uncomfortable saying that I believe he escalated that quickly as to murder my…"

His voice trailed off and Mr. Chagny nodded. "No further questions, your honor."

"Mr. Sorelli? Do you have any questions for this witness?"

He rose and took Mr. Chagny's place before the witness stand. "You have no evidence that it wasn't this man, do you?"

Mr. Debienne sighed. "No, I don't. Like I said, I don't know who actually killed Poligny or their true motive. It could be him, but I cannot say for certain and I won't pretend to."

"How closely have you followed the police investigation?"

His lips thinned. "This has been extremely difficult. Every day I go to work and think about my partner. Every decision that I once would have consulted him on I now have to make alone."

Mr. Sorelli's head tilted. "That doesn't answer my question."

"It was too difficult to listen to the details! To hear about suspects and evidence when I was just trying to keep the theatre going and comfort Jennifer at the same time."

The prosecutor raised his hands in a placating manner. "Completely understandable. But because of this, isn't it safe to say that your view of what happened to your friend is uninformed? That your opinion on this case is from a lack of knowledge of the facts and evidence, and not because you truly believe this man to be innocent, as Mr. Chagny would have us believe?"

Mr. Debienne frowned. "I suppose so."

The defense looked ready to object but Mr. Sorelli held up his hand. "I have no further questions, your honor."

"Alright, then we'll break for lunch and reconvene in an hour; court is in recess until then."

Christine did not miss the glance Erik gave to Mr. Debienne as he passed, nor the way the witness kept his eyes carefully lowered.

And once again Christine was certain they were not receiving the full story.

"That man could pierce someone's soul with eyes like that. Betcha he can even manipulate people into doing whatever he wants, like some mad hypnotist."

Christine gave Richard an exasperated look. "You shouldn't make assumptions about people, especially not when on a trial!"

Richard merely shrugged at her attempt at scolding. "You just wait 'til you're as old as I am. Then you'll start to trust your instincts about people."

He shuffled past her and although she knew his words were based on nothing more than a man's prejudice, still her thoughts lingered over the strange note she had found the night before.

"Miss? We're going to have to lock up the courtroom. Shouldn't you go find some lunch?"

So lost had she been in her own thoughts she had missed the room emptying of occupants except for the bailiff still on duty. "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

She grabbed her purse and stood, but before she vacated the room completely she turned to the young man following behind. "Tell me… if you can… does the defendant have any known associates?"

His brow furrowed.

* * *

"What do you mean?"

She huffed, annoyed with herself at trying to express thoughts that were only half formed in her own mind. "I mean… does he have people working with him? That have not been arrested? Could he have contacted someone on the outside and they'd… do what he asked of them?"

The bailiff grew very still. "Miss, are you in danger? Have you received a threat of any kind?"

She smiled wanly, his earnest expression making her quite sure that if she told him of the note that her fears would be taken very seriously.

But at the same time she did not want more trouble. She could be imagining Erik's interest in her, and he was already facing such steep charges, it seemed unfair to claim that a single note and a flower could have come from such a man, especially when he had been in custody for many months now.

"I'm sorry I brought it up. It's nothing. Really."

He didn't seem to fully believe her as he finished escorting her from the courthouse. "Miss, if you're in trouble you need to speak up. We take the protection of our jurors very seriously and just because we don't know of any associates with this… gentleman, that doesn't mean he doesn't have any. If you receive any threats, even if they don't seem very serious, I want you to tell me, okay?"

She gave him her most convincing smile. "I will. Thank you."

But as she walked away to seek out her lunch for the day, her conscience still prickling by not giving the bailiff the full details, she wondered if she had just made a terrible mistake by mentioning it at all.

* * *

Sooo... looks like Christine bumped into a certain someone! And Erik wasn't too happy when he caught the end of their exchange... Think that means something? And what do you think of Poligny's business party? Trustworthy or no? And maybe there is something fishy about the security officer after all...

Please review!


	9. Chapter 9

Okay, so I had intended to send this out earlier as my birthday gift to all of you, but festivities ran much longer than I anticipated so my good intentions were for naught! But I hope you manage to enjoy it anyway! Let's see what's up next at the courthouse today, shall we...

Onward!

* * *

IX

The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to an interview with a handwriting expert, who identified at least four different persons who had penned letters in Mr. Poligny's possession.

"And what about the final letter? The one that threatened to physically harm the deceased if he did not comply with monetary compensation?"

The witness held up a photocopy of the note and pointed to one of the words. "See this downward stroke? It suggests hesitation. At first glance the letters themselves are fairly consistent suggesting a single author, but this one in particular shows some interesting qualities. The oldest are almost childlike, the penmanship stunted… like if you tried writing with your non-dominant hand. Two other sets are far too round and natural, while the last makes a greater effort to appear like the older letters."

No matter how Christine squinted at the picture to which the forensic specialist referred, she could not see the specific marks that so clearly evidenced multiple hands had made the spiky scrawl. But Mr. Chagny made her recite her credentials, and even though Christine knew nothing about this field, she seemed a credible witness.

And if her testimony was accurate, it meant that whoever had first begun sending the letters was not the one who had threatened to kill Mr. Poligny.

Christine looked over at Erik. Despite his earlier conference with Mr. Chagny he remained as stoic as ever, giving her no acknowledgement. Ever since Mrs. Poligny had referred to him as _that _and shuddered at the mere thought of being intimate with him, he had seemed to retreat within himself—and for some unknown reason it made her heart hurt to see it.

Mr. Debienne had said that when they followed the instruction of the notes, their production actually improved. Had Erik simply communicated his musical prowess the only way he knew how? She did not fully understand what classified as extortion, but she didn't think that friendly suggestions left on a manager's desk should result in a prison sentence.

She hoped they would be allowed to look at the letters themselves soon.

Mr. Sorelli was not nearly so polite to the analyst, his tone automatically taking on a sarcastic nature that Christine found objectionable.

"Ms. Williams, how accurate do you consider your… interpretation of these samples?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you asking if I am confident in my testimony? Of course, otherwise I would not have agreed to come here today."

He shook his head, his smile placid and almost mocking. "Not quite. Is there, or is there not, still some debate about the validity of your field?"

This time she did nothing to hide her affront at his probing enquiry. "People in my _field _are widely respected for our analyses, Mr. Sorelli. Handwriting is like a fingerprint—everyone is different with subtle nuisances that become obvious to the highly trained eye. For you to insinuate that it is merely guesswork is an insult to forensics in general."

He raised his hands placating. "Did the defendant actually provide you a sample to compare to the letters?"

She looked somewhat disappointed. "Unfortunately not. Until recently he has not participated much in his own defense, hasn't said much of anything or so I'm told, and he was not willing to provide a sample."

Mr. Sorelli sent a triumphant smirk in the defense's direction. "So really, you have no idea which of the letters he has written."

"That isn't quite true."

His smirk fell. "What do you mean?"

"There was a considerable amount of writing samples found in the underground dwelling where Erik was discovered. From this I was able to infer that he was the same individual who had written the majority of the notes."

Mr. Sorelli frowned. "But you cannot be _certain._ None have actually witnessed his signature since his incarceration."

She sighed. "I suppose not."

Mr. Sorelli returned to his desk.

"Anything else, counselor? Or may we move on?"

He picked up one of the files from the neat pile on his desk and flipped through it absently.

Both lawyers had done this multiple times throughout the trial and it always gave the attorney an heir of credibility—that their questions were based on some submitted evidence and not merely rhetoric, and Christine wondered how many of these were merely props and how many were of actual use and purpose to their case.

"It has been suggested that the accused is of considerable intelligence. You previously stated, if indeed most of these letters were written by the defendant as you suggest, that the handwriting is stunted. Childlike. Is that consistent with high levels of aptitude?"

Ms. Williams appeared thoughtful, her words slow and carefully chosen. "Not… generally. But individuals on either end of the spectrum, from intellectual disability to what we might consider 'geniuses' have specific strengths and weaknesses. If Erik did not receive formal training in fine motor skills as well as lessons in how to properly form letters, it is reasonable to think that his penmanship would suffer. If I handed the average person a pen and demanded they write in cursive, they too would have trouble creating a fluid motion."

She looked over at him, this time her expression one of compassion. "It is entirely possible that he might not have had anyone to communicate _with._ Penmanship takes practice and if there is no one to help guide these skills…"

Mr. Sorelli cut in abruptly. "No further questions, your honor, and I would ask that you remind the jury that compassion, while an admirable quality, is not relevant to this particular case."

The judge nodded. "I agree. Jurors, the circumstances of this man's life are not relevant to the facts of the case. Please note only the testimony relevant to the nature of these letters and the probability that the accused was the one who penned them."

Christine stared blankly at the judge. How did they expect a person to simply disconnect their feelings from testimony? She understood that facts and evidence were predominant, but it _mattered _to her if Erik had never had anyone to write a letter to. It mattered if he was qualified by some innate musical genius to work in a theatre but his face and lack of social skills kept him from actual employment.

It mattered if he was only accused of this crime because he happened to be on the premises and it was easier to pin a murder on an ugly, lonesome man than actually find the killer.

It mattered if he had meant to be malicious or if he was merely trying to help.

But of course none of the lawyers truly answered _these _questions, and so she was left only to piece together what really happened with the snippets allowed in between objections and censures from the judge.

Court recessed soon after, and when she was about to exit the room, the bailiff approached once again. Erik was still seated at the defense table, Mr. Chagny speaking lowly in his ear, and she couldn't help but wonder once again what they talked about.

"You are certain there's nothing you want to tell me? I'd hate to find out tomorrow that something happened to you and I could have done something to stop it."

His face was once again the perfect picture of concern, but Christine cast one more quick glance in Erik's direction. His shoulders seemed straighter than before, and his head was tilted ever so slightly in their direction.

She smiled thinly, uncertain if he was attempting to listen to their conversation.

"Thank you again, but I'm sure everything is fine. I haven't been getting to sleep much and I'm probably just reading into things. I'd hate to stir up trouble over nothing."

He looked doubtful but didn't press further. "Alright then. But just so you know, we don't have a lot of information about the defendant. There aren't any known associates in the system but that could be just because _he's _not in the system. Don't even have a last name for him. But keep your eyes and ears peeled and tell me immediately if you get scared or think there's a threat. Okay?"

She nodded, her cheeks reddening despite her full understanding that he was simply doing his job and was not paying her any particular attention.

"You know…"

Christine glanced up at him. "Yes?"

"I hope you don't mind, and of course this would have no bearing on the trial but… I wondered if maybe you'd like to have coffee with me when this is all over."

She blinked. "What?"

He smiled at her, his eyes warm as he regarded her. "Coffee? Or tea if you'd rather. You seem like an interesting person and I'd like to get to know you better. When it wouldn't interfere with the case of course."

This time there was no mistaking the crimson blush that overtook her cheeks, and she swallowed thickly. He was handsome, there was no mistaking it, with a slightly mischievous look in his eyes that highlighted his youth. His job might be important but he always treated the jurors with a dose of good humor, especially when he ensured they had whatever they required.

She had been horribly embarrassed one morning but she had been forced to ask for a tissue, the cool air of the A/C making her nose itch terribly, and he had presented it with a bright smile and a flourish of white.

Richard had eyed her knowingly but she had resolutely ignored him.

He chuckled at her blank expression and tried again. "You know, go out with me when the trial's over."

Christine's throat felt tight and her heart began to pound rapidly in her chest. She didn't know anything about it, least of all why he thought her _interesting_, but she was so very tired of being alone and there would be time enough to change her mind by the time the trial was over…

"Alright," she managed to squeak out, cursing at how timid she sounded.

His brow furrowed slightly. "I don't mean to twist your arm or anything."

She smiled at him shyly. "That's not… I mean… that could be nice."

His grin widened immediately. "Good then. Something to look forward to." His expression grew more serious though and she looked about the room, but Mr. Chagny and Erik still seemed to be whispering about something and the secondary bailiff was stationed in the far corner. "Not that you should try to shorten the deliberations or anything. This is a serious matter and I don't mean to…"

She interrupted, not wanting him to think for a moment that she would let the prospect of a new friend and a cup of tea cloud her judgment. "I know what you mean. This is important and like you said, it's just something to look forward to, Officer…" His nametag supplied _Ryan,_ but she wasn't certain if that was the correct way to address him.

Not if he wanted to take her out for coffee someday.

"Joe. Well, in the courthouse it's Officer Ryan, but… I wouldn't mind if you starting thinking of me as Joe… you know, for later."

She held out her hand as her papa had taught so very long ago, and smiled as confidently as she could. "It's nice to meet you, Joe. I'm Christine."

She only allowed herself one last peek over her shoulder as they exited the courtroom, and she caught Erik's glare at the bailiff and wondered what had troubled him so.

And then he glanced at her with eyes so full of sadness and pain, and her heart felt heavy and sore for whatever had caused it… and even her timid smile at him did nothing to enliven his spirits before he returned his focus to the desk and she walked through the ornate oak doors.

It felt odd going straight home from the courthouse that day, but Marjorie had demanded Ewan put her on that night's shift and with five years seniority at the restaurant, he had begrudgingly obliged. Christine had initially been upset that the money she would have made was now going into another's pocket, but she did understand the woman's ferocity. She had a frequently ill daughter, or so she had regularly explained to the staff, and it was not unusual for her to beg to switch with another waitress—or in some cases snatch one away by going through management.

But perhaps a night off for resting and actually making something substantial for dinner would not be such a bad thing. Her rent had already been paid this month and with the extra money coming in from her jury duty as well as her evening tips, she actually felt that things were not so dismal after all.

At least not for the moment, and she would be grateful for it.

Winter was fast approaching, the cold winds and sudden rains promising a dreary few months to come. Christine had always liked the stormy weather when her papa was alive—they would share hot chocolate and he would tell her stories as they huddled near the ancient radiator. He would always scold her if he saw any hint of uncovered toes, absolutely certain that she would catch frost bite if she went without socks for even a moment during the winter months.

While their apartments had never been the finest, they had never been _that _cold, but she had indulged him as he fussed.

And now she so dearly wanted him to be there to worry over her, and her cold toes, once more.

The market was busy as it seemed most people were just now coming home from work, last minute items thrown haphazardly into metal carts with squeaking wheels before long lines meant short tempers and bruised feelings. Christine usually avoided the store at this time but she decided that she would treat herself to something special tonight in honor of her free evening.

Steak was not something she usually indulged in. Only on birthdays really had her papa thought it worth the expense, chicken or cheaper types of fish a more common meal in their home.

But as she had brushed her teeth that morning she noticed that her gums looked pale and after some consideration she realized that perhaps her frequent feasting on little more than bread, peanut butter, and a healthy spread of blueberry preserves was not adequate for covering the major food groups.

The butcher noticed her staring vacantly at the meat display, her understanding of the prices far outweighing her knowledge of which cuts were most desirable.

"Just for you?"

Christine didn't know what was so obvious about her single status, but Officer Ryan… _Joe…_ hadn't even questioned whether or not she had a boyfriend.

She just smiled at the butcher ruefully and nodded. "Just me."

He pulled out a package that held a single steak, and while she silently balked at the price, she hoped that it would be worth it.

He put a little sticker on the cellophane detailing how best to cook it before wishing her well and turning his attention to a mother, with two young children in tow who thought it great fun to poke idly at the chicken breasts and watch their fingers sink slightly into the tissue, giggling all the while.

The mother sighed tiredly before intervening, her children appearing chastened, at least for the moment.

Perhaps it was pathetic really, but as Christine unloaded her basket onto the belt and waited for her items to be rung up, she wondered what it would even be like to need to use a cart. To know what each of the family liked and to make purchases accordingly, special Saturday morning cereal for the children and maybe coffee beans for a husband.

Not that she knew how to make coffee as that required special equipment beyond her lone kettle that permanently resided on the stove. She wouldn't even have had that if it had not been left by a previous tenant—and after scouring it thoroughly it had appeared almost new, and it was one of her most frequently used item in her otherwise sparse kitchen.

It was growing dark by the time she finally made her way home from the market, the days growing shorter as the year drew to a close. She was certainly growing used to returning home during nighttime hours, there was something less foreboding about doing so while otherpeople still milled about, children held protectively by the hand as they hurried home for dinner.

But the healthy dose of fear that generally accompanied her on the way home did not allow for the loneliness to settle in, and she found she almost preferred her wary treks home to the despondency that inevitably followed too many thoughts and too much longing for something she had yet to create.

Her conversation with Joe had reminded her that a family to an orphan was not impossible. It might not include parents and that particular sense of home, but she did not have to be perpetually isolated. Her period of grieving, while necessary at the time, did not have to mean she locked herself away forever.

Her paper bag of grocery items grew heavy on her way home, and before she could put it down and rifle through her purse to find her keys, one of her neighbors poked her head out of the door.

"Christine, wait!"

Mrs. Dobson had lived in the building for decades, long before the surrounding area had become shabby and ill-cared for. But still she remained, claiming her little apartment was _home _and no matter what riff raff came to stay near her, she refused to move away.

Christine did not have much contact with her, their hours very different as she liked to go to bed as early as seven, frequently complaining to Christine that, "All the good TV programs go to bed early, so why shouldn't I?"

"Yes, Mrs. Dobson?"

She hoped that meat could stay out for this amount of time without spoiling, as the walk home and the long line had meant she was delayed longer than she would have liked.

"Some mail got delivered to me by mistake and I wanted to give it to you."

Christine sighed, shifting her groceries on her hip in hopes of relieving the pressure on her arm.

It didn't work.

She smiled at her neighbor as best she could. "I can come by later to get it. Thank you for noticing."

She finally found her keys that had worked their way into the bottom recesses of her bag, anxious to just get inside and cook dinner. Her stomach grumbled noisily at the delay, the promise of good food waking it from its otherwise placid despair and general emptiness.

"_Wait!_"

The vehemence of her demand made Christine pause, her key still nestled in the lock. "What is it?" For the first time she stopped and turned to her neighbor, hoping that nothing dreadful had happened to her and Christine had been too distracted and focused to notice.

"I heard someone at your door so I peeped out to check thinking I could give it to you, but it was a _man._"

Christine stilled. "A man? Doing what? Was it the super?"

"I don't think so! He was tall and all covered up. Said he was here to make a delivery and that I shouldn't worry… well, by the time I put my glasses on to get a good look and tell him I'd call the police if he didn't scoot, he had disappeared!"

Christine relaxed slightly. Mrs. Dobson was practically blind without her glasses no matter how she insisted her vision was more than fine, and regardless of how the cloudiness from the cataracts proved otherwise. He was probably just a salesman that one of the other tenants had buzzed in and she'd find a flyer on the other side of her door.

Now if she could only get _to _the other side of her door…

"I'm sure it's fine, but thank you for checking on me. I'll come by later to pick up my mail."

Mrs. Dobson looked wholly unconvinced and stationed herself outside her own door as she watched Christine enter her apartment. Christine made a great show of peering into the darkened space and proclaiming it unoccupied, and with a huff Mrs. Dobson retreated to her own home, muttering that this was _not _simply a deliveryman.

Nothing appeared amiss upon her cursory examination, but at that point her stomach was too hungry to allow time for a more thorough look about. She followed the instruction on the sticker as best she could, and while perhaps parts of it were a little too well done and others a bit more red than she liked, the steak was a welcome addition to her otherwise bland diet.

It was only when she was tending to the dishes that she glanced over to the counter where her rose, that had looked sad and droopy when she had left, was now fresh and lively.

Her nerves returned tenfold.

The piece of paper that she had so carefully propped against the glass was still there, yet the slightly crumpled corner was now crisp and smooth.

She told herself firmly that she was being terribly foolish and that _nothing _was truly amiss as she picked up the note, fully expecting the same words from before be scrolled across the page.

Except that they weren't.

_All good things come to those who wait, Christine. You can do better than a lowly bailiff._

And when a quiet tapping came at her window, it took all of her remaining self-control not to scream.

* * *

Sooo... looks like Christine got asked on a date and she accepted! But it doesn't appear that everyone is as thrilled about it as she might be... Hm... wonder who wouldn't like her even considering the prospect of new relationship... What do you think about her beginning to question her "gifts"? Is she right to make enquiries about their source? And do you think her admirer has crossed a line by entering her apartment? Living quarters are very personal you know!

I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review... consider it a birthday present to meee!


	10. Chapter 10

Okay, you all officially blew me away with your responses last chapter! I have _never _gotten that many. Ever. So I take it as yet another birthday gift and one that I value very, very much. So thank you thank you! But I'll stop gushing because I know I gave you all a very mean snippet so I'll be quiet and just say...

Onward!

* * *

X

With trembling hands Christine grabbed the heavy flashlight she kept for emergencies. It was not unusual for the power to go out in her building, especially during storms in the wintertime, and she always felt just a little safer with how it could almost be mistaken for a club if she held it a certain way.

But tonight she wanted the light, forcing herself to move toward the persistent tapping, the strong beam centered on the darkness beyond the window.

Only for her gaze to meet two eyes peering back at her, a face pressed against the glass.

She expected to see a burglar, a man with a malicious smirk as he waited to jump into her apartment and cause all manner of harm, but instead she was met with a baleful look and pink mouth as a young cat begged entrance into her home.

Belatedly she realized it had begun to rain, a low rumble in the sky a reminder that the weather could and would turn at any moment this time of year.

And without any thought to consequence Christine hurried to the window, wondering why it chose her window to stalk.

It was just a little thing, although Christine thought it looked big enough to be away from its mother. She didn't know much about animals, but as the creature willingly went into her hands and immediately released a pleased purr as she rubbed away what rain had managed to settle in its silky black fur, Christine was grateful it had come to her.

She had no idea how it had gotten trapped upon her fire escape, but as she peered at the golden eyes tinged with green, she was glad of it.

"Hello, little friend. Are you looking for a home?"

It released a squeaky meow in response, pressing softly padded feet against her arm before nuzzling the hand that still stroked its coat, this time merely for the pleasure of doing so rather than an attempt at drying her new acquaintance.

Perhaps it was her loneliness that made her want to keep it. She did not have the money for a pet, could barely feed herself some months, but as she sat down in her threadbare chair and the kitten began kneading on the soft flesh of her thigh, she wanted nothing more than to claim the little thing as hers.

She could have peanut butter sandwiches without the joy of blueberry preserves. When the trial was over maybe she could see about a second job, the extra money going solely to providing a comfortable and welcoming place.

And maybe then the empty corners of her apartment would begin to fill with things for her new friend, and so too would her heart begin to mend at no longer being quite so alone.

"Would you like to stay with me? I'll do my best to care for you… I promise I will."

The kitten meowed again, this time a persistent noise that did not quiet even as she spoke to it. The small body was awfully thin, its bones easily discernible beneath the plush fur.

"Are you hungry? I don't have anything for you…"

It mewled again, butting its head against her chest before looking up at her with mournful eyes.

And as her heart melted she resolved herself to making whatever sacrifices were necessary to care for this tiny creature. It needed her, and she could not possibly say no.

"I don't have anything for you here so I'll have to go to the store again." She cringed as she thought about how much food would possibly cost, but knew that it would be worth it. It had to be.

She felt dreadful leaving it alone in her apartment, its tummy too empty for it to sleep even in the circle of blankets she provided on her chair. But still, at least it would be safe and she would hurry, and then maybe they would sleep well.

Together.

Before she left however she did offer a shallow bowl full of water which did peak the kitten's interest—though it seemed more interested in dunking its paw in the cool liquid rather than drinking it.

With it sufficiently distracted she grabbed her coat and slipped through her front door, hopeful that she would be back before the kitten grew overly upset.

There was not much in her apartment that she cared about. Her furniture was sparse and second-hand, so if it decided that it made a finer scratching post than a sleeping nest she would not overly mind.

Most of the possessions she and her papa had shared before he died had disappeared. When social services had arrived she was told to pack a few things, the rest would be _taken care of, _although she had never seen what happened to any of it. Perhaps someone had informed her, but she had been so frightened and overwhelmed that likely she simply did not remember.

Maybe it was waiting in storage, gathering dust and hoping that someday she might come to rescue it from its forgotten state.

She had taken some clothes, shoes, and scrapbook of her favorite memories with her parents, and most especially the quilt her mother had brought from Sweden so many years ago. For as long as she could remember it had lain across the foot of her bed, and no matter how scared she was while living in the group home or trying to scratch out some semblance of a life in the intimidating city, she had her quilt for company.

And yet no matter how glad she was to still have some remembrance of home and family, it had never been enough.

The market was much quieter, the rain driving many people indoors. Christine was soaked through and she couldn't help but sniffle, the cold seeping through her coat and reminding her to keep her visit short—her nightgown and a cup of tea sounding all the more appealing.

Especially if she now would have a friend to share it with.

The pet aisle was a daunting experience. Rows of food that spouted all sorts of promises only made her further confused, completely unsure about what the kitten would prefer. Did they care about flavors? Chicken or seafood? Wet or dry?

And would it need a cat box?

An older woman with her basket heavy laden with all sorts of cans must have seen her frantic expression because she approached with a chuckle.

"Need some help?"

Christine nodded gratefully, her relief outweighing any embarrassment she might have felt at her ineptitude.

"New addition? Usually if you get them from a shelter they give you instructions on proper care."

Christine gave a little half-shrug. "It showed up at my window tonight and I'm afraid I've never had a pet. But it's crying and I figure it must be hungry."

The woman smiled warmly, a hint of pride in her expression. "It's good of you to take him in then. You'd be surprised how many people leave these animals out to fend for themselves. If you're good to him then he'll love you more than anything… and you'll never regret it."

Christine sighed wistfully. While there might be coworkers that cared about her, that was not all the same as being _loved_.

She had not been loved by someone since her papa died.

And now that she realized it, she practically ached to experience it again.

"That sounds wonderful, but I don't think it'll love me until I feed it," Christine gestured helplessly at the wall of supplies. "I don't have a lot of money, but if you can show me what to buy I'd be very grateful."

The lady laughed again, a low, full sound as she probed for answers about age and weight so she could better direct Christine as to what she should buy.

Before long her basket was filled to the woman's satisfaction, and she moved to walk with Christine to the checkout. But in talking with her about how to properly care for her new pet, Christine realized something important and with a blush she stopped her.

"How… do I… I mean, it's just a baby but…" She took a steadying breath and forced herself to blurt out her question. "How do I know if it's a boy or a girl?"

To her credit the older lady tried to hide her ever widening smile, but eventually she was chuckling openly.

"Well aren't you just the sweetest thing!" She never stopped releasing the occasional snigger even as she explained the differences to look for.

Christine never stopped blushing.

Her basket was full of food and smaller supplies but the woman had offered her cart to house the pail of cat litter and plastic bin that would make up her new friend's facilities, so together they unloaded their items onto the belt.

But when Christine moved to place the divider between their two orders, the elderly woman waved her away. "I'll pay for it, my dear. This will at least get you started and if your little fellow needs any doctoring you'll need your money for that."

Christine hadn't considered what it might cost to go to a vet, and she prayed that her companion would be of a healthy sort.

Because already she knew that she would rather empty her savings to help it rather than let it suffer.

"Really, that's very kind but you've helped enough and…"

The checker hesitated but the woman prompted him to continue tallying the items before directing the bagger to separate the bags. "I've taken in many animals myself over the years when they've come a'callin', so really this is quite the bargain."

Christine opened her mouth to protest once more but the woman turned to her, her expression stern. "You have to learn to accept some help now and again, dear. We don't make it in this world by ourselves."

Chastened, Christine relented and replied sincerely, "Thank you. Truly. I wouldn't have known the first thing about what to do."

The woman smiled as she tucked away her receipt into her wallet and pushed her own cart of items out toward the door. "There's always time to learn things, whether it's how to take care of a cat or how to accept some help when offered. Good luck, my dear!" And before Christine could situate all her supplies so she could carry them home, the woman had walked away.

"You gonna be able to get all that, miss?"

Christine smiled ruefully at the heavy tub of litter and the cat box that the bagger had piled all of the rest of the items into. "I suppose I'll have to."

Her arm ached by the time she made it back to her apartment, and the hard edge of plastic that she balanced on her hip had cut in through the layers of her coat and protested greatly to the treatment. But still, everything she needed had made it home with her and as she carefully opened her front door in case her little friend tried to bolt through, she was instead met with the sight of it curled up on her mother's quilt, its already small body looking impossibly tiny in the tight ball it had made itself.

As she closed the door and the bags rustled it lifted its head, especially interested when she opened a can of food and plopped a small amount into a dish. There was absolutely nothing appealing about the brown mush, and to Christine the smell was rather revolting. But before she could even turn to offer it, the kitten had reached up with its two front paws and clawed at her wet pant leg, mewling all the while.

She laughed at its enthusiasm and placed the dish onto the floor, pleased as it lapped greedily at the food she'd provided.

With it properly occupied with dinner she covertly scratched the length of its back, its tail raising on instinct as she tried to determine its sex.

And she tried not to feel ridiculous and perverted as she did so.

It certainly was not a girl, but it lacked the dangly bits that the woman had described of a boy, so clearly at some point he had been found by someone and fixed.

"No offspring for you, I suppose. But that's alright; it will just be you and me. How does that sound?"

He merely flicked his tail and continued to sup, paying her no further heed.

And it wasn't until she was tucked into bed that night, her bedfellow making a comfortable nest on the pillow beside her, did she remember the fresh rose and note that had frightened her so badly.

Yet no matter how long she thought about it, she could not decide what was best to do.

"You scared me, you know, when you scratched at the window. I thought you might be someone coming to hurt me."

He didn't appear very remorseful, finally deciding on a spot he found pleasing and lying down with a deep sigh of contentment.

Despite her remaining uncertainty of how to properly handle the _gifts _that had appeared, for the first time in a long while she felt a sense of belonging—and it was all thanks to the tiny creature beside her.

"Goodnight, Boo. Sleep well."

-X-

"What have you got for us today, Mr. Chagny?"

It had been difficult to leave little Boo behind as she headed to the courthouse that morning, but she reasoned that he could use the rest as his body became accustomed to plenty of food and clean water. He had not seemed particularly interested in _rest _in the darkened hours of the morning, and she had sacrificed a few pages of scratch paper as she crumpled them into balls and offered them as toys.

Those held his interest while she opened the rest of his toys that she had brought home the night before, colorful mice and plush balls with bright feathers soon littering her floor as the kitten pounced from one to another.

She was pleased to note that he had made use of the cat box during the night, and she wondered if that came from some previous training as a house pet or if cats instinctively chose such places to modestly eliminate waste. She had chosen the most private corner she could, although her studio apartment did not boast many options.

With one more kiss on his fuzzy head she forced herself out the door. Marjorie had claimed this evening's shift as well so she would not be able to work again until Monday. While normally she would have gone to Ewan and begged another shift, this time she was glad of the additional day's respite. She didn't know how Boo would react to be stuck indoors all day when he was used to the freedom of city life, and being gone for a thirteen hour stretch on his very first day did not seem prudent.

Still, she worried over him, hoping he would like the dry food she had left for him and that he wouldn't drown himself in the water dish and that he wouldn't trap himself somewhere and be sad and desperate by the time she returned.

She forced herself to turn her attention to the case however when Mr. Chagny rose and called a Mr. Louis Gabriel to the stand.

He was younger than most of the other witnesses had been, probably in his mid-thirties. His suit did not fit him overly well and he fidgeted often with his tie, but his expression remained grim and possibly even determined as he sat down and swore to speak truthfully.

"Please state your profession for the record, Mr. Gabriel."

He cleared his throat, his voice a low baritone. "I'm the chorus-master at the opera house owned by… well, just Mr. Debienne now."

Mr. Chagny smiled. "And for those of us not well versed in the running of a theatre, what exactly does that entail?"

"I'm involved in selecting members of the chorus, rehearsing with them, and overall conducting."

The defense counsel nodded. "And would you say that you're good at your job?"

Mr. Gabriel sat a bit straighter. "The reviews of our chorus are of the highest standing. I'd like to take a little credit for that."

"But in fact, they aren't _always _glowing accolades are they? For example, are you familiar with this review in _The_ _Gazette _from the performance on the thirteenth of March this past year?"

Mr. Chagny handed him a newspaper clipping, and the witness immediately scowled. "I am. That night a new soprano was introduced to the chorus; under much protest from myself, I can assure you."

"And what did _The Gazette _say about the performance?"

He glanced at the article but from his summation of it he clearly had memorized most of its content already. "They criticized my leadership, stating that I had clearly lost my touch for selecting talent because the new soprano clearly had none."

"But I thought you said that you were in charge of selecting members. Why would you put her in such a prominent role if you did not think her skilled?"

Mr. Sorelli rose. "Your honor, is there a point to all this? It was my understanding that this was a murder trial, not an exposé on the running of a theatre company."

The judge waved his hand for him to sit. "I trust there is a point to this, counselor?"

Mr. Chagny nodded. "Just coming to it, your honor."

"Objection overruled. You may continue."

He turned back to the witness. "The question is the same, Mr. Gabriel."

"I wouldn't have hired her if given a choice. The managers sometimes felt the need to indulge their patrons. If a particularly large donor wanted their son or daughter to get the 'full experience' of the theatre, they would be given a part, no matter their qualifications or talent—or generally the lack thereof. I would do my best to work with them but some, Ashley Wilkinson for example, was beyond my ability to teach."

"And how did you feel about this method of hiring?"

Mr. Gabriel sighed, his frustration evident. "I believe that music is an art, and that what we show the public should be an extension of our appreciation for its beauty. But when I'm not permitted to put forth my best work, it is… beyond exasperating."

Mr. Chagny nodded in sympathy. "Did you try to explain this to the managers?"

"I did! They just reminded me that they were the ones supplying my paycheck. And since most of the money that provided _for_ my salary as well as the rest of operations at the theatre came from those patrons, I should be grateful to be able to contribute my services wherever needed!"

"So they basically dismissed your concerns."

"Yes, even when reviews like this one," he waved the newspaper clipping with a look of disgust, "could ruin the theatre's reputation."

Mr. Chagny went to his desk and picked up a piece of paper and held it in his hands. "What did you do then, Mr. Gabriel?"

The man took a deep breath. Christine couldn't quite make out his expression. While he seemed embarrassed about whatever it was he was going to confess, he also appeared rather resolute as well.

"For years there have been rumors about a ghost in the theatre. My predecessor warned me when I was still in training that I shouldn't take any of it too seriously, that it was just a marketing tactic. But still, things would… happen and the managers would start making changes. Changes for the _better._"

He fiddled with his tie again. "A rumor had started that Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne were receiving letters, notes about how the opera house could be run better. And I… I was so _frustrated _that they wouldn't listen! So I… I wrote one."

Mr. Chagny walked closer and handed him what appeared to be a photocopy of the letter. "Can you identify for the court that this is the letter you gave the managers?"

Mr. Gabriel nodded. "It is."

"And what did you say you would do if they did not listen?"

He cringed. "I said that if they insisted on allowing a soprano to screech about on stage, I would give them a real reason to scream." He cast a sheepish look at the jury. "Not very clever, I know."

Mr. Chagny grinned slightly. "And did you have any intention of following through with that threat? Of making them 'scream'?"

He shook his head resolutely. "Not at all. I'm not a violent person I just… I wanted them to stop sacrificing our work for the sake of pleasing donors."

"What was the outcome of your letter writing?"

"They dismissed Ms. Wilkinson. The reviews got better." He sighed, his face serious. "I'm not proud of what I did, but I just wanted them to listen. I can't speak for any of the other writers, but I can obviously understand the impulse. If they won't listen to you, even when you're in an important position in the company, sometimes you're willing to go to extremes for them to heed your advice."

Mr. Chagny glanced at the judge. "Nothing further, your honor."

The judge motioned for Mr. Sorelli to begin, and he did so with a smirk already plastered on his face. "Mr. Gabriel, as you just stated, you cannot speak to the motives of the other letter writers. Can you say with absolute certainty that the man who wrote the letter just before Mr. Poligny's death did _not _in fact mean to do him harm if he was not given the money he requested?"

"No, of course not."

"And you claim that things usually got better for the theatre after the letters were received, yet some of them demand monetary contributions. Does that sound like an altruistic measure for the sole benefit of the theatre?"

Mr. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. "No, but we don't make very much…"

"I have no further questions, your honor. This witness clearly has little to contribute to the actual _facts _of this case."

The judge frowned. "Careful, counselor. Mr. Chagny, would you care to redirect?"

"Just one question, your honor." He stood and faced the witness. "Why did you agree to testify today? You've confessed to extortion yourself, and yet you willingly offered testimony. Why?"

"It was the right thing to do. I have no idea if that man killed Mr. Poligny, but I couldn't have everyone thinking that all the letters were his—that there was no other explanation for their existence beyond malicious intent. I didn't want to hurt anyone; I just wanted our productions to be the best they could be." He gave a little sigh and a shrug. "I just wanted to be able to take pride in my work."

"Thank you, Mr. Gabriel, for your honesty. The defense rests, your honor."

The judge visibly brightened at this. "Very good, then nice and early Monday morning we will convene for closing arguments and the jury will receive their instructions before deliberation. Court is in recess until then."

Christine was anxious to get home to Boo but she couldn't help stealing one last glance at Erik as she passed. She wasn't expecting him to be looking at her as he had seemed to avoid her gaze ever since Mrs. Poligny's testimony, but today he was staring at her almost expectantly.

She gave him her customary smile, but today he did not return it, just continuing to stare as if waiting for… something.

And for the first time, it made her feel nervous.

* * *

Sooo... one of you actually guessed that it would be a cat, so congratulations to _Addmein _for knowing my weakness for the small and fuzzy :) What do you think of the woman offering to pay for Boo's supplies? Anything suspicious there? And speaking of Boo... do you think he was rightfully named?

And it looks like at least one other person has confessed to being a letter writer... Does this makes you think that Erik is not guilty of the extortion charge as well?

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	11. Chapter 11

Whooo almost forgot to update today? Let's see... Me! It was me! But we won't focus on that... instead, let's get to closing arguments.

Onward!

* * *

XI

There were no strange notes waiting for her when she arrived home, only a kitten that appeared highly ready for company. He wound himself about her legs as she fixed her own dinner, and then mewed pathetically until she conceded and placed a bowl of his own down on the floor for him to nibble.

Over the rest of the weekend she discovered that Boo much preferred to be stationed against one of her limbs than make use of the many toys she offered him. He played, to be sure, his colorful mice often brought to her to throw, and after bounding after them as fast as his short legs would carry him, he would deliver them back to her waiting hand.

But all of his naps took place while nestled up against her, tiny snores coming from an equally small nose, warming her heart and healing some hidden part of her that was so desperate for love and friendship.

Therefore when Monday morning came he made it equally difficult to leave, tucked as he was so soundly against her side, warm and cozy and showing no signs of moving for the day.

"Boo, I have to go to court."

As she tried to slip from the bed, one slit of an eye opened slightly, his displeasure obvious at being jostled. She did her best to tuck the covers around him in a semblance of a nest, but her apartment was cold and she was certain the blankets would be no substitute for her own body heat.

But with a heavy sigh he placed his head back down into the curve of his body, a small black lump in the center of her bed that made no other movement as she readied herself for the day.

Ewan hadn't called to inform her that Marjorie had taken another of her shifts so with great reluctance she rolled up a clean uniform and slipped it into her purse. She wouldn't be home until late that night and she hoped Boo would be alright by himself for the entirety of the day.

He had food and water to be sure and toys aplenty—most scattered across the entirety of her floor, but still she worried for him.

"Soon the trial will be over and I'll only have to be gone in the evenings," she promised him, bending to place a kiss on his silky black head. "And maybe we will reach a verdict quickly so no more early mornings for us."

He twitched slightly in his sleep and although she would much rather have stayed to watch him as he dreamed, pondering what visions would play within a kitten's mind as they slept, she forced herself to leave, locking the door behind her and offering a silent prayer that Boo would be alright.

It was raining on the way to the bus stop, large droplets that instantly permeated Christine's coat and soaked her hair. She smiled grimly as she redid her braid once seated within the confines of the bus, certain that if Joe had first seen her in her drowned state, his offer of coffee would not have been so readily given.

The security officer had avoided her since their confrontation the previous week, ensuring that his coworker was the one to search her bag and avoiding eye contact at all costs. She was wondering if she was being imprudent by not speaking with the authorities about what had transpired with the note and her suspicions about the guard, but she decided that surely asking the landlord about changing the locks would be sufficient. It was possible that she had left the door open and a deliveryman had simply walked in, as with the dingy nature of the hallways and some of the more shady characters that lived within the building, she could understand not wanting to leave another rose out on her doorstep.

Not that she approved of his intrusion.

She had never had anything worth stealing and while she was sure to lock her door when she was within her apartment, she easily could have forgotten as she hurried out in the morning to catch the bus for the courthouse.

She waited on her usual step for the doors to open, the rest of the jurors milling about the waiting area, and this time one of the middle-aged gentlemen leaned against the wall near her. He had a newspaper with him that he perused casually, although whatever he was reading about didn't seem to please him if the low grunts and head shaking were any indication.

Eventually he folded the newspaper with a sigh, before he seemed to notice her sitting there. "Happy that this seems to be coming to a close?"

She recognized him as the man who sat in the front row to her left, their positions making it so they had never actually spoken before now, but she realized that if deliberations started soon she would have to begin talking with each of her fellow jurors.

"I am, but I can't help but be nervous about trying to come up with a verdict." She bit her lip, hoping she hadn't said too much. They were forbidden from discussing the case, but she didn't know if merely mentioning the process counted as _discussion._

He smiled ruefully. "Afraid it will turn into _12 Angry Men?_"

She chuckled. They had watched the film in high school during civics class, and she definitely would like to avoid the arguments and dramatics that it had depicted. "Something like that."

Officer Ryan appeared and motioned them through the double doors of the courtroom, offering Christine a wide smile as she passed him, her cheeks reddening almost immediately in response.

"Good morning everyone," the judge greeted, his tone cheerier than usual. Christine hoped that meant he had a restful weekend and that he was not merely glad that Erik's trial was coming to a close.

"Now, I am given to understand that both parties have stated their cases and are ready to proceed with closing arguments, is that correct?"

Both Mr. Sorelli and Mr. Chagny rose and affirmed that they were indeed prepared.

"Very well, but first I would like to speak to the defendant."

Mr. Chagny glanced warily at Erik, but Christine supposed there was nothing he could do to keep the judge from addressing his client even if he so desired.

"Mr.… Erik. Can't say I've used anyone's first name in the court before."

Erik wasn't looking at the tabletop but Christine got the distinct impression that he wasn't looking at the judge either. His gaze appeared more fixed upon the seal behind the judge, large and imposing and crafted from materials Christine could not even begin to identify.

They didn't use real gold in such things, did they?

"The law does not require that you speak in your own defense, but you understand that by waiving this right you will not receive another opportunity to do so. Are you certain that you would not like to take the stand?"

When Erik made no effort to answer, Mr. Chagny intervened. "Your honor, my client's… ability to speak does not appear to always be… consistent. I can assure you that I have explained the functioning of the court and that he has verbally declined to testify. Vehemently in fact."

The judge frowned and his eyes narrowed as he regarded Erik, and Christine wondered once again if Erik was truly competent to stand trial. There were certainly people who lacked the ability to talk, but for it to simply come and go seemed more a matter of willingness to her rather than lack of capacity.

But regardless, she still cringed thinking about having to answer the interview questions during jury selection, and to have to relate personal information, especially given how blunt Mr. Sorelli could be…

She could easily understand his reticence.

"I'll accept a nod then, Erik. Do you understand that you forfeiting your right to speak on your own behalf?"

The _nod, _if it could in fact be called that, was only the barest incline of his head in the judge's direction, which caused the judge's frown to deepen. "Fine. Let the record reflect that the accused does not wish to provide testimony. Mr. Sorelli, would you like to commence with closing arguments?"

He rose, buttoning his suit coat perfunctorily. "Yes, your honor."

He carried no papers as he approached the jury box, he only walked slowly in front if it before looking each juror in the eye.

Christine thought it very uncomfortable.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," he began, his face a mask of solemnity. "You have heard a great deal of testimony over the past few weeks, with differing explanations for how the evidence could be interpreted. So let me state for you the facts."

Christine held her pen at the ready, prepared to write down the apparent facts once more and compare them to her previous notes.

"On the third of April a man was shot to death in his study, the handgun his own. Ballistic experts state that the trajectory could not have been by Mr. Poligny's own hand. A threatening note is found, one of a series of letters that progressively worsen in the level of threat as the victim refused to give in to the extortionist's demands."

He moved slightly to the side, ensuring he made eye contact with a different set of jurors as he did so. "Fact. We have video evidence of a masked man causing an 'accident' to the theatre shortly after another letter is ignored. Fact. We have DNA evidence that the mask found in the accused's possession was in fact _worn _by the accused, the very same type seen in the video. In addition, we have another victim who testified that a man in that identical mask attempted to kill him after he witnessed the delivery of a note."

He turned slightly and glanced at the defense table. "Now, my esteemed colleague would have you believe that the handwriting of the notes indicates at least four different people, yet also claim that the accused is of exceeding intelligence. Is it therefore beyond belief that he changed his handwriting according to avoid detection? Is it so difficult to believe that the defendant, hoping that one manager would prove more malleable than two, dispensed with Mr. Poligny to have his instructions met?"

He paused. "But I digress. I promised you facts. The fact is that the only man that is actually acquainted with the accused, considers him a _friend, _knows the priority that the defendant places on musical excellence. Perhaps he was truly trying to make the theatre great—that his suggestions would have improved the quality of the theatre if the mangers had listened. But as owners, it was their _right _to run the opera house as they so chose. It was their _right _to refuse to pay money to a man who promised disaster if he was not obeyed. It was Mr. Poligny's right to live."

He stepped forward and placed his hands upon the railing of the jury box, leaning forward slightly, his expression one of firm sincerity. "It is the State's contention that on that spring night, the very man who terrorized the opera house entered the Poligny home, and in an attempt to do away with a man who no longer would bow to his demands, staged his murder to appear as a suicide before disappearing back to the theatre he claimed to love. This speaks to premeditation. It speaks to motive, and it certainly speaks to skill.

"While the defense may argue that the defendant is too intelligent to be caught," he glanced at Mr. Chagny with barely contained derision, "I would remind the jury that there is no such thing as the perfect crime. There are always loose ends, there are always questions, but what is important is that we base our decisions on the facts and the most logical interpretation of that evidence. And in the case of first degree murder and extortion, I must posit that the accused is guilty; therefore it is your civic responsibility to hold him accountable for such actions."

He stepped back, his shoulders dropping slightly, his performance almost at an end. "If you find this man guilty of extortion it is because the facts support this conclusion. No evidence provided by the defense provides a definitive alternative, and as such, ladies and gentleman of the jury, I recommend you find this man guilty of all charges and bring justice to Mr. Poligny and those he left behind."

Christine found herself half wanting to applaud, but occupied her hands instead with scribbling down final notes and bullet points about the apparent facts. She supposed to a point it was true, Mr. Chagny did not provide another suspect with evidence on how they might have committed the crime, but she didn't think that was his job. She hoped the judge would explain soon about what they were actually supposed to base their decision on.

The judge nodded that Mr. Sorelli could sit and motioned for Mr. Chagny to take his place. Christine was mildly surprised by the subdued nature of his attire, his suit fitting much better than before and his shirt a mellow blue with a corresponding checkered tie that had not at all the flare of his previous selections.

Christine wondered if this meant he now had a girlfriend that not so gently pushed him in a more aesthetically pleasing direction.

If Mr. Chagny was nervous he hid it remarkably well, walking with confidence before the jury box, his smile warm and seemingly genuine. "Good morning, jurors, I hope this foul weather has not soured your moods for today's proceedings."

Christine gave a half-hearted smile in return, and she noted others made the same attempt at levity.

He sobered quickly enough, although he did not appear nearly as stern as Mr. Sorelli had.

"The State would ask you to convict my client on supposition—on conclusions drawn more from circumstance rather than fact. In reality, the prosecution has provided no direct evidence of my client's presence within the Poligny home. They have found no fingerprints on the letters, and my client has not even submitted a handwriting sample to be certain he penned _any _of the notes. Their DNA evidence links him to a mask found in the basement of the theatre—hardly the smoking gun they would have you believe it to be."

He walked the length of the jury box, his stride confident and his expression untroubled, so Christine supposed the pause was to allow them time to digest his words.

"I would ask you to consider something while making your decision. If you find yourself leaning toward a guilty verdict, take a moment to ponder the reason why. Are you doing so because the evidence, direct and indisputable proof, is leading you to believe that my client is guilty? Or is it because you think him a recluse—that surely he must be guilty of _something,_ and that the police and the prosecution would not have invested the time and expense of a trial for no reason. If it is the latter, I remind you that it is the prosecution's responsibility to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. And furthermore, I would submit that they have not succeeded. My client is a mysterious man to be sure, and he does suffer from a very great deformity, but by no means does that automatically prove him guilty of the crimes put before him. As his psychiatrist affirms, my client is not lacking in empathy, which the very nature of these charges implies."

His voice grew in earnestness, and Christine couldn't help but glance behind him to Erik, who remained as passive and unattached as ever.

"So please, think carefully as you deliberate, putting aside assumption and bias, and looking at the nature of this case for what it is—the attempt for the prosecuting attorneys' office to place blame based on circumstantial evidence alone. Thank you."

Mr. Chagny sat and the judge cleared his throat, garnering the attention of the jurors. "The court thanks you for your service, counselors."

He turned to the jury, and Christine decided she much preferred when his attention was on the attorneys. "And now for the one of the most important parts of our system, wherein I get to try to explain the nature of the charges and what constitutes guilt. I shall try to remember that all of you have your own professions away from the law and shall therefore try to keep it as simple as possible."

He looked at them all expectantly, and Christine gave another small but confused smile, wondering if he was trying to be humorous.

If so, it wasn't working.

The moment she had dreaded since learning of the charges was fast approaching and already the nerves that had long since quieted due to the length and repetitive nature of the trial returned tenfold. She didn't know how to do this, to take her notes and determine guilt, to fight with conviction if needed—not when her own thoughts were muddled and so very uncertain.

"The accused is charged with extortion. This involves a threat posed either to the person or the property of the victim. The intention must be to take money or assets that do not belong to said individual, and the victim would feel inclined to sacrifice those items so as to assuage the threat. It is important to note that within this state, the property is not required to have exchanged hands in order for the defendant to be found guilty, the objective of the accused must simply be proven."

He waited, and Christine wrote furiously, trying to jot down as much as she could. It wouldn't do to proclaim the man guilty simply because she couldn't remember precisely what the charge meant.

"As to the charge of first degree murder, intention is also a critical matter. The accused must have planned, implemented, and intended the death of the victim. This is not simply an accident, or a fit of temper, but includes premeditation. This does not necessarily mean that a conspiracy must be concocted, but before the murderous act is committed, it must be proven that the defendant deliberately set about to end the victim's life."

He paused again, and Christine felt the crushing weight of what these charges truly meant.

"Are there any questions regarding the specifications of these charges?"

Christine's mind was reeling from the gravity of it all, and the rest of the jurors were silent also. She wondered if they would be allowed to seek clarification later once they began discussing the case and they sorted out their thoughts.

"Alright then. Now, when deliberations commence you are obviously allowed to begin discussing the specifics of the trial with the jurors. If you have any questions you can direct them to Officer Ryan, as he will continue to see to your needs while you reach your decision."

Christine glanced his direction and didn't miss the way he grinned at her, his thumbs tucked in his belt loops, his pride in his job readily evident.

"I would like to clarify for you that the defendant may be guilty of one charge but not the other, so do not think that if you feel that the prosecution has not adequately proven his guilt on one matter that you must declare him innocent overall. However, it is also important to vote with your conscience. While of course you are to base your decision on the facts presented to you, your own personal beliefs and life experiences will influence your decision—that is merely a fact of life. Discuss the case in its entirety and reach the best conclusion that you can."

The judge tucked some papers into an open folder of his desk before turning back to the jury. "Now, I tell this to all of my juries, and I want to be especially clear on this one. To be guilty of a capital offense the jury must be unanimous lest a mistrial be declared, but do not allow that to sway your decision. You are not failures if you cannot reach consensus. It simply means that the prosecution will have to try again at proving their case in future."

His gaze swiveled to Mr. Sorelli and Christine couldn't help but notice something rather pointed in it. Was he suggesting that something was lacking in the prosecution? Perhaps she was not so misguided about thinking there were some holes in the witnesses' testimony after all.

"The bailiff will now take you to the jury room where you will sit and talk. The amount of time it takes you to reach a decision is entirely up to you, but I urge you to be thoughtful and ensure you've spent enough time looking over the evidence before forming any conclusions. Officer Ryan, please escort the jury into deliberations."

The jurors all rose and made to follow the bailiff from the main courtroom, but Christine couldn't help but glance once more at Erik, hoping that she could glimpse some manner of truth from him so she would know what decision to make.

For she did not want her opinion to rest solely on the interpretation of facts presented by Mr. Sorelli and his smirks and lack of compassion.

She wanted it to be based upon the truth.

And if Erik had indeed hurt Mr. Poligny, if he had fully intended to cause harm to the theatre workers as some of the letters seem to indicate, then he should face those consequences.

But as he met her gaze and gave a little half smile before nodding for her to hurry along, all she felt was more confusion—both for the way her heart beat faster at his attention and the way her thoughts grew all the murkier.

And as they all settled around the table, notepads scattered across the tabletop and people eyed one another nervously, she didn't have the first idea of how she could do this.

"Now, who thinks he's guilty?"

* * *

Sooo… Christine is settling into life with Boo, the attorneys have rested their cases, and now it's up to the jurors. Is anyone disappointed that Erik didn't take the stand? Any ideas of why he would have refused?

Next up, deliberations! And then after that… Are we all ready for a verdict? Is it too soon?


	12. Chapter 12

Well, it was suggested that as a Thanksgiving gift to all of you, I post this chapter early. I'm not sure how many will find time between family and food to read, but here it is anyway! I'm so incredibly thankful for all of you who read, review, encourage, and harass for updates. Without your constant support I would not _ever _have written anything beyond my first book.

But speaking of, _Destruction of Obsession_, it was brought to my attention that I have some new readers now who were not privy to that particular story the first time it was posted. So in honor of the holiday, for _**three **days only _the Kindle version will be available for only **99 cents**! (The sale begins on November 30th at 12AM PST, and ends December 2nd at the same time; a link to my author's page can be found on my profile). So hopefully that will make it more accessible for all of you that are interested in my other works :)

Now, enough of that. We have some deliberations to get to!

Onward!

* * *

XII

Richard smiled broadly next to her, but upon seeing her answering glare he held up his hands placating. "I'm just teasin'. Of course we've got to talk about it first."

The businessman that Christine had spoken to that morning was seated across from her, and with his smart attire and general aura, people already seemed to look to him for direction.

The older woman beside him, her knitting needles already out and clicking rhythmically glanced about the table. "Should we begin with introductions?"

Richard chuckled. "Sorry, ma'am, but the odds are I won't remember any of your names in any case. Let's just talk about the case, shall we?"

She pursed her lips, obviously displeased at the lack of personal detail, but Christine was almost glad of it. In this room they were not friends or even acquaintances. They were simply a group of peers banded together with a mutual charge—to determine the guilt or innocence of Erik.

Officer Ryan had suggested they arrange themselves in order of jury number about the oblong table. "Seems like things go more smoothly when the process stays neat and tidy. And I take it you all don't want to be in here forever, right?"

There was grumbled confirmation as the trial already seemed to have gone on for far too long, but a part of Christine didn't want for it to be over. While she still dreaded this decision, it still felt oddly fulfilling to be a part of something important, and she would be a little sad to see it end.

Especially if that end included watching Erik and his shy smiles being led from the courtroom in shackles.

"You'll need to select a foreman; it helps to keep things organized. They usually guide the talks, make sure all the evidence has been looked at, and typically initiates the votes. That member will also deliver the verdict, so I suggest someone who doesn't mind public speaking."

Christine shrank back in her chair but didn't miss the knowing smirk Office Ryan sent her direction. Clearly her dislike of talking before the court had not gone unnoticed.

"Some people prefer anonymous voting, but you're welcome to simply discuss your opinion openly. We just like to give our jurors options." The bailiff deposited a basket of scrap paper and short pencils onto the table. "Now, I'll leave you all to talk, but I'll be back at noon to get you lunch orders."

Christine perked up immediately. "Lunch?"

Officer Ryan's grin widened. "Yes, lunch. You thought we didn't feed our jurors? That we lock you in a room with no food or water to hurry along a verdict?"

She blushed and gave a little half-shrug. "Hadn't really thought about it. But maybe if I'd known you provided food I wouldn't have fought jury duty so much."

He chuckled. "I'll let the CSO know that we should have it put on a brochure in the lobby. Maybe more people would start reporting for duty." He turned his attention to the other jurors. "I'll be stationed right outside if you need anything. Either give a knock or stick your head out and I'll assist you."

He left then, and Christine's embarrassment grew as she noticed a few of the jurors looking at her meaningfully—Richard among them. "What?"

He scoffed good naturedly. "Oh, nothing. Maybe they should also add 'dating service' on that same brochure; that should really get the young folks involved."

"So, about that foreman vote," the business man cut in loudly. Christine smiled at him gratefully and he winked. "Anonymous or out loud?"

Silently the jurors reached for the scraps of paper and scribbled, and Christine assumed that from the lack of names they were meant to write down the number of the person they found most qualified.

It came as no surprise to her that her suit-clad hero was deemed foreman. "I suppose you could all call me Juror Number 11, but I usually go by Stephan."

The rest of the jurors simply stared.

"Right then, we have a lot of evidence to cover, so should we just start in the order it was presented?"

Richard held up his hand. "I think we should start with an initial vote. Get a feel for what everybody's thinkin'. Maybe we'll find out we get to go home sooner than we thought." He glanced at Christine, "Except some of us might hold back a response just for the lunch."

Christine glared as best she could, but he only pretended not to notice.

Stephan glanced about the table. "Does anyone have a problem with that?"

She most certainly did. She was counting on the discussion and actually getting to look over the evidence to help her come up with an answer, and yet now they wanted her to write down a firm verdict without having either.

She was about to raise her hand and tell everyone precisely that, but the rest of the jurors were already scribbling on the little scraps of white, and it seemed too late to object.

So she stared blankly down at her own, not having the faintest idea what she should put down.

Stephan leaned forward, his voice low. "This is just to get to know the feel of the room, it isn't binding."

Christine looked up, fiddling with her still blank paper. "But what happens if we all voted the same way? What if I can't take it back and then the verdict is in and I haven't gotten to look over everything?"

He smiled and reached across the table, grabbing her paper and writing _undecided _upon it "There. Happy?"

She leaned back in her chair, her relief genuine. "Very."

Stephen nodded. "Good. Now, everyone finished?"

The rest of the jury passed along their papers, each in varying degrees neatness in their folds. Stephen even went so far as to shuffle them before making three neat stacks.

Christine noticed that her non-vote alone made up the third category.

"Alright, so for our initial count we have five innocent, six guilty, and one undecided."

A young man, probably in his late twenties, groaned. "This'll take forever, won't it?"

Stephen frowned at him. "This will take however long it needs to. If you were on trial, wouldn't you like to know that the jurors took enough time to be sure of their answer?"

He rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to commit a crime, I sure as hell wouldn't get caught, so there wouldn't be any deliberations to begin with."

The woman next to him shook her head. "Such confidence. The prosecution said it; there's no such thing as the perfect crime. Even the smartest person can make a mistake, and so it's up to us to look at the evidence."

Stephen cut in before anyone else could interject. "An excellent point. So let's start doing precisely that. I suggest that we look at the extortion charge first and work our way up, how does that sound?"

The others mumbled their agreement and Christine relaxed slightly. While of course blackmail was very wrong, there was something at least a bit comforting knowing that the death penalty could not be enacted should she vote Erik guilty.

Richard grunted. "The extortion all comes down to the letters, and I for one would like to see the handwriting that was causing such a to-do between the attorneys."

Stephan nodded. "I agree, could someone ask the bailiff to please bring in the letters?"

Richard leaned closer to Christine, "Yeah, missy, how about you go ask the officer for them?"

Christine turned and glared. "I do _not _appreciate your teasing, Richard. He's just doing his job and I'm trying to do mine! Whatever comes later is our business."

His eyebrows rose. "So there is something between you."

The middle aged woman seated across from Richard rose sharply. "I'll do it." She sent an exasperated look toward Richard, but he merely smiled placidly.

Christine wanted to hit him.

Officer Ryan brought in a box, presumably filled with the evidence of the case. "If you would like to see the video again let me know and I'll have a TV brought in."

Stephan thanked him and he left again with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Alright, letters…" Stephan rifled through the bin, pulling out numerous files and reports until finally he seemed satisfied with his discovery. "Should they be read aloud or should the file just go around the table?"

It was mutually agreed that it was far preferably to actually get to _see _the notes and Christine waited patiently for the folder to make its way to her, the other jurors making comments every so often about their observations.

"I don't see much of a difference."

"That's why the defense brought in an expert. I can't tell the difference between a diamond and a cubic zirconium either, but I trust a jeweler's assessment," another replied.

"Rather vague, aren't they? I mean, other than the last one, most don't even mention money of any kind. Is it really extortion if it doesn't involve money?"

Stephan interrupted. "I don't think that's what the judge said. As long as there's a threat to the property or the person directly if the demands are not complied with, it would be extortion."

Juror 4 hummed and passed along the folder.

Christine couldn't help peaking at them as her neighbor skimmed the notes briefly. When hearing the expert's testimony she had expected the handwriting to vary widely, the differences in authors obvious. But instead they were all quite similar, yet also vaguely familiar.

Finally it was her turn and she flipped through the photocopies carefully. They appeared to be in order, dates in blue ink scrawled across the upper right corner, and she supposed a timeline had been established by some credible method.

"Couldn't they have divided up the notes by the writer? How are we supposed to know how seriously to take the threat if we don't know who sent them?" Christine asked, frustrated already by the lack of organization. There were holes in the testimony and as she looked over these notes, there seemed to be some missing there as well. They began almost abruptly, with little introduction or list of initial demands. Perhaps Mr. Poligny had discarded the initial letters, dismissing them as merely a prank. Or had only the letters that seemed the most nefarious been submitted into evidence?

She did not like that idea at all.

"Maybe not. Because if the expert was wrong, then for them to divide up the notes could cloud our judgment," Juror 12 piped up.

Christine sighed. A salary was mentioned in one of the early notes, along with a list of demands, none of which seemed particularly outrageous, at least not to her.

_Someone has trespassed in my private box under the pretence of initiation. I would humbly suggest you do not allow the imbeciles in your employ to take such liberties again, especially not for their own amusement. The little chorus girl they frightened into leaving had great potential. A pity. _

Christine frowned. Initiation? Miss Jammes's testimony had clearly indicated that tales of the Opera Ghost were often bandied about the theatre, and clearly some poor girl had fallen victim to a prank from her chorus-mates. While she didn't think she would ever believe that a ghost was inhabiting her workplace, she knew that other, more superstitious types could do so and be terribly upset by it.

She flipped to the next note.

_Do your ears lack even the most basic functionality? If so, I suggest you contact the necessary physician so this problem may be remedied. The supposed tenor you have hired for Doctor Faust should be disallowed from venturing from the baritone persuasion. I shall give you one more opportunity to make a proper cast before I will be forced to directly intervene._

She did not know much of _Faust _in particular, but if it contained challenging pieces that specified a well-qualified tenor, then casting a baritone would certainly have been a foolish thing.

_Evidently, whether it be the hiring of performers with a modicum of talent, or janitorial staff capable of noticing and tending to necessary tasks, you prove unwaveringly incapable. Some of the less worthy patrons of this theatre deigned to leave chewing gum under the seats. See that this distasteful reality is dealt with posthaste._

Despite the serious nature of their task of deliberations, Christine smiled.

_I believe that in my first correspondence I detailed the terms of my continued cooperation, yet my salary has been hereto unpaid for the past three months. Even a ghost may lose its patience, dear M. Poligny. _

She read through the rest of the notes, yet no matter how she looked for a reoccurring tone that might suggest murderous tendencies, they seemed more like reasonable recommendations and not the rantings of a madman intent on ruining the theatre. And a consultant was allowed a fee…

She passed along the notes to Richard, her frustration growing. She could not excuse a man's behavior simply because he smiled at her. Mr. Sorelli had been correct that the managers had the right to run the theatre however they so chose, whether or not it fulfilled its full potential.

And no matter how much she might wish to, she could not simply rationalize away bad conduct.

Richard made little grunting noises as he perused the notes, and as he read Stephan addressed the table. "I think the first order of business is to get an idea of who thinks the handwriting expert was credible, and that the witness… Mr. Gabriel, was telling the truth when he confessed to sending one of the notes? By a show of hands…"

Eight of the twelve jurors raised their hands, and Christine noted with a grimace that Richard was not one of them. "That's a start at least. Would any of you that voted no like to explain your reasoning?"

Unsurprisingly, Richard piped up. "First of all, how do we know that the defense didn't bribe that theatre guy into saying he had written one of them? But even if he had, it's only the one letter and there are a bunch of others that are incriminating enough."

Christine shifted in her seat so she could look at him. "So because you have doubts you assume he's guilty? I thought that 'reasonable doubt' meant that we were to presume him innocent—that the prosecution had not proved their case."

"You're just a girl, Christine, so I can see why you'd be so soft-hearted. It's not a bad thing, just not practical when it comes to law and justice."

Christine's mouth dropped open, but before she could retort, Juror 12 interjected. "Hey, now! She's an adult in this country, the same as you! And just because she's young and happens to be female doesn't mean that we shouldn't listen to her point of view."

Stephan raised his hands in a placating manner, "Okay, I can see we've gotten off topic. I'll remind all of you that who we are personally isn't relevant—we're a group of twelve _peers. _And I think that… Christine, was it? Has a good point. We can't be voting guilty just off a gut feeling, that's why we're examining the facts. Does anyone else want to explain why they don't think the expert was credible?"

Juror 5 raised his hand. "It's not that I don't think she's credible… I just don't think the field is infallible. Witnesses said that the guy is highly intelligent, and I'm just not sure that it's too much of a stretch to think that he could change his handwriting… kind of like a security measure for just this reason."

The older man beside him groaned. "This isn't about conspiracy theories! There's always going to be some convoluted plot that a particularly creative person could concoct, but we should just stick with what is plausible in _real _life, and not what would make scintillating reading in a crime novel!"

Officer Ryan suddenly entered, a set of takeout menus in hand. "Time for lunch orders! Take a look, see what sounds good and I'll come back and get everyone's choices in about ten minutes."

He took special care to ensure to give Christine a menu personally before placing the rest in the middle of the table for the rest to grab.

She couldn't help but feel flattered.

The prospect of food was a welcome distraction from the deliberations that seemed to be getting nowhere. If they couldn't even manage to settle the question of extortion, she hadn't the least idea how they would ever reach a consensus on the murder charge.

The prices for lunch were much larger than she typically spent, and she felt like it was quite the treat to not worry about what sacrifice she would have to make in order to afford a sandwich with bacon rather than scrimp and simply choose the least expensive. And maybe she would also get a cup of soup…

They squabbled a bit more waiting for lunch to arrive after giving their orders, and when Officer Ryan returned, she was startled to find a brownie tucked in with her sandwich and soup, but when she turned to tell him of the mistake he merely winked at her and grinned. "Thought you could use it."

And once she had promptly ignored Richard and his pointed smirks, she found that she was able to thank him for it without stuttering and blushing overly much.

A brownie had never tasted so good.

A few of the jurors continued to discuss things while they ate, but Stephan seemed content to enjoy his food and read the paper, and Christine was grateful for the break. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to begin with the extortion charge. Mr. Chagny had made an excellent point—if Erik was guilty of either, it didn't seem plausible that he was guilty of both. He either penned the majority of the letters and was interested in money and the betterment of the theatre, or he had written the final note that led to the murder of Mr. Poligny.

And while it was not the most logical as she did not know him, not at all really, she dearly hoped that he was only guilty of extortion.

She savored every bite of her lunch and even tucked away a bit of it in her purse to save for later.

While guilt nibbled at her for thinking it, she almost hoped deliberations took a very long time, simply so she could have such a bounty again.

But once everyone had eaten, Stephan tucked away his newspaper and their discussion began anew—this time with Christine promising herself she would speak with more conviction the next time the opportunity arose.

"So, we've all seen the letters and still seem to have differing opinions on who wrote them and what they mean overall. What about the murder charge? Anyone have specific thoughts they'd like to share?"

Christine took a deep breath before speaking. "I just don't think there's any evidence that directly showed that Eri… that the defendant killed anyone. No one saw him there. There aren't any fingerprints on the gun except for Mr. Poligny's."

Some of the jurors nodded, but Richard gave a grunt. "All that means is that he cleaned up the scene. With all the TV shows and info on the internet, it's not too farfetched to think he knew how to do it. A witness already testified that the defendant tried to kill him!"

Christine opened her mouth to argue but Stephan cut in.

"Yes, let's discuss…" he rifled through his notes, "Mr. Buquet's testimony. I had jotted down a few discrepancies in his story."

The woman next to him scoffed. "You mean like how he swore on his mother's grave, only to find out that she's alive?"

Stephan smiled thinly. "Precisely."

"Okay, so what? We just throw out what happened to him? Even a drug addict can be attacked."

Christine glanced at the young man who spoke, his expression rather strange.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

She couldn't believe she'd asked something so personal and given how many people stared at her in surprise, she was not the only one.

He was quiet before giving a little shrug. "So what if I am? It's still true."

Christine smiled sheepishly, trying to soothe the awkward tension in the room that she'd managed to create. "You're right, and I'm sorry. But I still think that his potential involvement in that crime doesn't necessarily prove him guilty of this one."

"Agreed," Stephan confirmed. "And what about the testimony of the wife? She had never seen the accused either at the house or at the theatre."

Another juror snorted derisively. "I doubt she'd really have noticed. She reeks of self-absorption."

Richard cut in. "What about his friend? He clearly suggested that this crime was something the man would do."

"But that isn't proof!"

"Well, he must have done _something _if a friend would come forward like that!"

The squabbling rose in volume, and Christine sank back in her chair, already exhausted.

They had only been talking for a few hours, but their ability to communicate and reach a decision seemed only a dream—one that she was beginning to doubt they could make a reality.

But what would that mean for Erik?

* * *

Sooo... still no dialogue from Erik, but at _least _we got to read some of his letters! Assuming he actually wrote them... Are deliberations going how you expected?

I wish all who celebrate a safe and happy Thanksgiving! And maaayybbe if I still get reviews you'll also get an update on Saturday... but if not, I'll see you all in December! (Apparently I'm not above extortion, even on a holiday...)


	13. Chapter 13

Your reviews have spoken, so an update it is! And the _Destruction _sale has begun, so if you want a more "true to novel" read, you might want to take advantage!

Now, onward!

* * *

XIII

Deliberations were as difficult and exhausting as she anticipated. The only bright spot within the hours spent pouring over evidence and arguing with other jurors about what could have really happened that spring night, came in the form of lunches brought to her by Joe. He often threw in an additional treat for her that she hadn't ordered, and she surprised herself by how much she was growing to appreciate his thoughtfulness.

Evidently all it took to woo her affection was the promise of food.

She wondered if that made her easy.

But what worried her was the way her performances had suffered since deliberations had begun. Tensions were high in the jury room and by the time she dragged herself to work she was so emotionally exhausted that it was hard to imbue her songs with any semblance of the life and passion they deserved.

It came as little surprise to her when Travis pulled her aside and suggested she voluntarily take herself off the roster until the trial was over, lest Carlotta do it for her and there was no telling when she would deem her fit to perform again.

Christine took no pleasure in lying, but still she claimed a sore throat as the reason for her inability to sing, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that it wasn't a complete falsehood. Never had she argued so much in her life, and her vocal chords did twinge and protest even from the simple process of greeting guests and taking orders.

What hurt her most, however, during the entire process, was that each day they continued to have difficulty reaching a conclusion was another long day that Boo had to spend locked away in her apartment without company. He was a good boy, only mildly terrorizing their home in her absence, but his loneliness was plain whenever she returned. At first he had taken to shunning her, sleeping only on the farthest edges of the bed and refusing to purr when she pet him and tried her best to apologize for her busy schedule.

Yet every morning she would awake to him tucked up against her, sleeping soundly and clearly happy to have her near, no matter for how short a time.

And for eight days she had dragged herself from that very same bed and gone to court. She had sat in a room that she was certain would become her sarcophagus if they did not reach a verdict soon.

Then on the ninth day, with the jurors tired and patience thin, a final vote was cast. Officer Ryan was called in, and with a nod of his head he led them back into the courtroom, the judge and the attorneys settling in for the last time.

Christine wondered if they simply sat in here, waiting for the jury to return or if they were allowed to leave, tending to other affairs but ever ready to return to the court when the verdict was in.

And what did Erik do during that time? There had been very little time between when they had finished and when they had returned to their jury box. Was he kept in a solitary room, somewhere safe and private where people wouldn't stare? Or perhaps there was a cell in the bottom of the courthouse for defendants awaiting trial.

Visions of dungeons and rats filled her mind, and she pushed them away firmly.

He did not look particularly nervous as he stared at Officer Ryan conversing quietly with the judge. He was dressed as nicely as ever, his suit of the finest quality, the black a stark contrast to his otherwise pallid complexion.

Yet to his side, Mr. Chagny fidgeted, straightening his polka dotted tie and fiddling with his cufflinks in some kind of nervous rotation.

The judge cleared his throat and nodded his thanks to the bailiff who stepped away and returned to his usual position,

"Would the jury foreman please rise."

Stephan obeyed, and Christine offered him her silent support. He had done his absolute best over the course of their discussions, trying to keep the arguments productive instead of merely hurtful. It was amazing to her how many conversations had dissolved into accusations flung amongst jurors, Erik's supposed actions forgotten as perceived slights were argued instead of facts or evidence.

"Officer Ryan tells me that there have been some problems in the jury room, is that correct?"

Stephan smoothed his suit jacket. "That's correct, your honor."

"You have been deliberating for nine days. Nine. Rather an incredible number."

Christine's stomach did an uncomfortable flip. She had tried to remind herself frequently that their decisions had to be based on conviction, and a lack of consensus did not necessarily equate to a failure as a juror.

Even if that was what inevitably had occurred.

"Your honor, despite our best efforts we have been unable to reach a unanimous decision, on either charge."

The judge frowned. "I see. And you do not believe that given more time or further clarification you could reach such an agreement?"

Stephan glanced almost imperceptibly in Richard's direction. "No, your honor, I do not."

"Fine, then I have no choice but to declare a mistrial, and call an end to these proceedings." He picked up his gavel but hesitated before allowing it to make contact with the sounding block. "But first, I'd like to say something to Mr. Sorelli."

The prosecutor looked surprised, but stood all the same. "Yes, your honor?"

"Doubtless this will not be the last time you appear in my courtroom, and a word of advice before it happens again. Cases have been made using circumstantial evidence before, but in my experience they lead to situations like these. Next time you decide to bring charges against this man, I suggest you have something more concrete. Do you understand?"

Mr. Sorelli's mouth pressed into a firm line, but he managed a quiet, "Yes, your honor."

"Excellent, then I would like to thank our jurors for the time and effort they have put into this case. Please do not think that because you could not reach consensus that you were in any way unsuccessful in fulfilling your responsibilities. I am certain you did your best with what was put before you."

Mr. Chagny rose. "Your honor, I'd like to make a motion to release my client from custody. It could be some time before the DA's office is prepared to proceed with a new trial, and he has spent months in lockup as it is—to the direct detriment of his health and wellbeing, I might add."

The judge nodded. "Given the _thin _nature of this trial's evidence, I find that I agree with you, counselor." He gave one last glance toward the prosecution, his displeasure with his case obvious. "Court is adjourned; Erik, you are free to go."

Christine glanced over at him, a bit in shock that it was all suddenly over. Mr. Chagny was offering his congratulations and while Erik nodded and quite begrudgingly shook the man's hand, there was no sense of relief, no joy at being able to walk out of the courthouse of his own free will.

Officer Ryan approached, interrupting her view of Erik's reaction. "Jurors, please pass forward your notepads. After that you're welcome to head out."

She was a little surprised that they didn't get to keep them. She had grown rather fond of her legal pad with all her scribbles and pictures. It was like a journal of her time here at the courthouse, and with some reluctance she passed it to the bailiff.

The other jurors began collecting their things and shuffling out of the jury box, but Christine was still deciding if she could ask Officer Ryan for her notes back when Richard's voice interrupted her consideration.

"He can still be tried, you know. Maybe this time with more mature individuals who can see guilt when it's put right in front of their faces."

Christine turned and glared at Richard, tired of his incessant need to sound superior to her. "Or maybe he'd be faced with people who didn't feel the need to judge him solely on supposition! After all we talked about, how could you continue to sit there, day after day and call him guilty? What evidence was there that unequivocally proved he had committed those crimes? Was there any? Because I certainly did not see it!"

She gathered her purse, her own emotions frayed and she wanted nothing more than to be free of this courtroom. But as she stood, her hands shaky and her temper short, her purse tumbled and its contents spilled and rolled across the floor of the rapidly emptying jury box.

And Christine wanted to cry.

No matter how she and the others who were convinced of Erik's innocence stressed that reasonable doubt easily applied given the lack of direct evidence, some members refused to be swayed.

They had decided Erik's guilt the moment they had first sat within the jury box, and no manner of discussion or imploring could affect them.

So now it was possible for him to be tried again. And what if the next time more jurors were selected that were as blinded by prejudice and he was found guilty on the same inadequate evidence?

She stooped to scoop up the contents of her bag, and with a groan she noticed that some of her lip balms and pens had rolled down the step to the lower section. But before she could retort, Richard felt the need to continue the argument. "And you don't think you've approached this entire process with your own set of biases? You feel sorry for the man so you're prepared to overlook anything he's done just so you can feel good about yourself. Well, I'm sorry, missy, but that's not good enough for me. You were lookin' to accuse that widow because she didn't cry enough on the stand, so she _must _be somehow involved. But I'm tellin' you that the man over there has plenty of evil in him, and you're blind if you can't see it."

Officer Ryan approached, his face set and all trace of the saucy smirks completely gone. "Is there a problem here?"

Richard shook his head, brushing past Christine as she still knelt on the floor, too stunned to form any kind of reply. "No, I'm done here."

And then he was gone.

Officer Ryan entered the jury box and helped fish out the rest of Christine's items that had fallen too far for her to reach on her level of the seats, and he handed them to her with a worried expression. "You alright? Trials can be tough."

Christine took them, a numbness overtaking her that was not at all pleasant. "Did I do that? Did I see what I wanted to see and that's why we couldn't reach a decision?"

She glanced over at the defense table, half expecting Erik to have fled the courthouse already to enjoy a taste of his reinstated freedom. Instead he was watching her, his expression inscrutable.

"Look, the judge was right. This was not Sorelli's best work and it was a tough call."

Christine sank back onto her heels as she peered up at him. "But what if he did it?"

Joe offered his hand to help her back up to her feet. "Then they'll find more evidence and charge him again. But if he didn't do it then there's likely nothing to worry about." He smiled then, this time his good humor readily evident. "Now, I believe we agreed to coffee after this messy business was over with."

Christine stuffed the rest of her belongings back into her purse, trying to settle her nerves. She was grateful for his sympathy but she still felt anxious and overwrought. She _did _want to go out with him, she decided, but if she was going to make it through the dinner service she was going to need time to collect her thoughts.

"I know, and I want to. But I have to catch my bus to get to work and I can't be late."

Joe hummed thoughtfully and glanced down at his watch. "Well, how about I buy you a cup for the road. It'll be quick, I promise. And then…" he added, a touch of mischief in his eyes, "you can give me your phone number and we'll set a time for when it doesn't have to be so rushed."

There was such an easy manner about him that she couldn't help but return his smile. "I see, so all this to wheedle my number out of me. That must be a very good cup of tea you're buying me."

She hoped it wasn't too presumptuous for her to assume he was buying, but from the way his grin grew at her response, he did not seem overly upset by her banter.

"And you seemed to think your discernment was lacking. Regular Sherlock Holmes over here."

She blushed. "I really do have to catch my bus."

"Well then, let's not delay! It would be a terrible thing for you to have to hitch a ride from a stranger from the courthouse."

They walked toward the exit, Joe holding open the swinging door that separated the trial area from the spectator seats. But before she passed through she gathered up as much courage as she could and turned to Erik.

She didn't know what possessed her to do it—she really was pressed for time and it was doubtful he'd want to hear anything from her. But she couldn't let him walk away thinking that she had voted against him.

"Excuse me?" She didn't intend for it to sound like a question, but Erik and Mr. Chagny were still talking lowly and she saw the attorney pass something inconspicuously toward Erik. She wasn't sure if she was meant to witness the exchange, and she didn't know if her interruption would be welcomed.

Yet they both turned, Mr. Chagny smiling warmly. "Yes?"

"I just… um…" She managed a shy glance in Erik's direction. She had known he was tall, but now as she stood so much closer, she realized just _how _tall and it dwarfed her frame considerably. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry we couldn't reach a decision. And that I… I didn't think you were guilty. That's all."

Joe was practically laughing at her as she rushed passed him and hurried out the courtroom doors, although he caught up to her quickly. "Well that was _very _nice of you! I'm sure he feels much better about things now."

She glared at him but it lacked any true feeling behind it. "I didn't want him going the rest of his life thinking that I considered him a murderer."

_"__And _a blackmailer. Can't forget that part of it."

"Right. I just… we run into people every day. The other jurors, the attorneys… _you…_ and then we just go about our lives. I just… if he thought about me at all afterward, I wanted him to know what I really thought."

He was quiet for a moment as they walked together, Christine following as she had not the least idea which of the many shops about the courthouse he had selected. Finally she could no longer take the silence so she added, "You think it's stupid."

He shook his head in disagreement. "No, I don't. I think it's kinda sweet. Like I would have wondered what would have happened if I hadn't asked you out—if you'd have said yes and then I'd regret it forever."

Christine rolled her eyes. "You're setting your expectations awfully high. I don't think it would plague you _forever_." She nibbled at her lip before boldly adding, "But I'm very glad you did."

He smiled down at her. "Me too."

The coffee shop he selected was completely unknown to her, and looking at the daunting menu with its infinite variations as well as hearing the complicated orders those in front of her conveyed, she was almost glad that she had never acquired a taste for coffee. Instead, she could only somewhat haltingly order a cup of black tea, feeling relatively confident that it would be drinkable.

When she moved to rifle through her purse in search of change, Joe waved her off. "My treat. You're giving me the honor of walking you to your bus stop—wouldn't be right for me to make you pay for more than enduring my company."

His own selection was a simple cup of black coffee, and while he waited patiently for Christine to doctor her tea with cream and sugar, his drink remained unchanged.

"You've got that down to a science. Maybe tea drinkers are just fussier."

This time she was leading them toward her stop, and she supposed he must have a car of his own since he didn't know where the bus picked up passengers. "Careful, you don't have my phone number yet. I'd hate to have to withhold it because you were being rude."

He gasped in mock horror. "I should hope not!" But then more seriously he added, "You really want to go out with me? You didn't seem so sure about it when I asked the first time."

Christine fiddled with the lid of her cup, the hot beverage warming her hands soothingly from the otherwise biting cold of the afternoon. "Sorry, I'm just… nervous. I've never really done this before, and I just… I have my routine, you know? But I'm finding that it's kind of lonely and…" She took a sip, pleased that the tea was in fact a good strong blend. "I'm ready for a change."

"I'm sorry about your dad," he responded quietly.

She glanced up at him, surprised. "How did you…"

He shrugged easily. "Jury selections. Not much else to do but listen to all the interviews." He smiled again, this time rather impishly. "And let's face it, you stand out."

She hoped her red cheeks would be mistaken for a reaction from the cold wind that was picking up rather than the embarrassment it really was. "Thanks. It was a long time ago but sometimes it still..." She took another sip, her throat feeling tight. Her determination to make more of life might have brightened her outlook, but evidently it still hurt to talk about him.

She wondered if it would be different if she could speak with someone who knew him—had witnessed what a kind, talented man he had been. But instead there were only strangers, and while they meant well, there were no shared memories, no fond anecdotes to be shared.

And still it caused an ache in her heart to think of him.

"Well, this is my stop."

He glanced around, and she wondered what he saw.

They had reached the dingy bench and shelter, but Christine made no move to enter it. While it would have been nice to get out of the wind, there were always crude things written inside as well as unidentifiable substances clinging to the worn partition, and she rarely subjected herself to the confines, let alone expose Joe to them.

"I'm sorry if I made you sad. I just wanted you to know I understood. My dad died too when I was young—killed in the line of duty. But at least I had my mom. Sounds like you had an even rougher time of it."

She gave a little shrug. "I think it's hard, no matter what. And I'm sorry about your dad too."

Joe nodded and pulled out his phone. "So… now that I've managed to make things depressing and awkward… can I still have your number?"

She pushed away the lingering thoughts of her papa and mustered up the brightest smile she could. "I think so, just so long as you promise to use it."

"Now that you can count on."

She urged him to return to the courthouse but he insisted on waiting until her bus arrived, and they chatted about much more pleasant things until finally it pulled to the curb.

He helped her up the steps with a promise to call for a proper date, and with a final thanks for her cup of tea, Christine was once more on her way to work, her heart pounding.

She had no idea if he'd really call or if things would work out in any way. But the prospect of it was nice, she decided. It made her feel less forgotten, and that was something quite refreshing.

Work was long and tedious, but she had at least felt gratified as Ewan looked pleased to hear that she could return to her previous schedule.

"Not that you're not welcome back here at dinner!" he assured her. "But the lunch service has been rather… lacking in talent while you've been gone."

She laughed and assured him that she'd be more than happy to take back her regular shifts the following week.

The walk home was bitterly cold and she tucked the collar of her coat more firmly up about her ears. This was one particular aspect she would _not _miss now that the trial was over.

Boo was pleased to see her, demanding food and plenty of cuddles that she was only too happy to provide. There were no strange gifts, no notes that suggested that anyone was watching her. Ever since the fresh rose and note had arrived, all such gifts had halted—which merely proved to her that it was all some sort of misunderstanding.

The rose was looking sad and droopy, but still she had not yet had the heart to get rid of it—the last vestiges of excitement in her otherwise monotonous routine. But Boo must have somehow managed to climb onto the counter in her absence, for the notes that had once been propped against the glass had been pushed to the floor.

"That's very naughty, Boo. Kitten paws do not belong on the counter!"

He blinked lazily from his spot on the bed, clearly waiting for her to join him.

She picked them up, and before shoving them in a drawer she glanced at the contents, her brow furrowing.

For hours she had poured over the letters for the trial, the handwriting argued about for far longer than she had even thought possible. And clearly deliberations were causing a strange form of madness in her, for it looked remarkably similar to the notes she currently held in her hands.

Frustrated, she placed it into the drawer, determined to look at it again in the morning after a long night's rest. Her thoughts were muddled enough as it was, and there was no point getting hysterical when likely her eyes were merely playing tricks.

But when she awoke the following morning, she was no longer in her little apartment or her familiar bed.

And it didn't seem quite so hysterical to think that a madman had been stalking her after all.

Especially not when a figure in the corner of the room began to move.

* * *

Sooo... We have a verdict! And Christine actually spoke to Erik directly! (Progress!) But now I think I've left you on an even worse cliffhanger... Who do you think has Christine? So many options! Officer Ryan? The security guard? Erik?

See you next Saaaattturday!


	14. Chapter 14

Whooooo almost forgot to post today? You guessed right, it was meeee! I blame a heavy dose of PMS. And Advil. And hot water bottles. And too many episodes of _Criminal Minds. _

Anyway, you don't want to hear about that. Yooou want to know who has Christine!

So, onward!

* * *

XIV

Christine had awoken slowly.

She shifted slightly between the sheets, her limbs free and unencumbered by the warm lump they had grown so accustomed to contorting around so as not to disturb her bedfellow.

The sheets felt different. While hers were softened with age and frequent washing, these were an unfamiliar kind of soft, as if the fibers themselves had been especially crafted for a luxuriating sleep, rather than beaten into submission from years of use.

The pillow was plumper, the scent different—as if the expensive brand of fabric softener had been employed rather than whatever was on sale.

Her thoughts were fuzzy as she at last opened her eyes to peer about the room, certain that she would see Boo waiting on the floor for his breakfast, her thoughts of the strange bedding an elaborate illusion from a mind not yet fully rested.

But as she glanced about, there was nothing remotely similar about the room to the little studio apartment she had called home for so long.

For a moment she felt almost numb as she tried to make sense of her new surroundings, but when a figure appeared from the corner, tall and imposing and his face covered fully in a mask, her fear emerged, strong and forceful.

"Stay away from me!" She tugged at the blankets as she brought them up almost like a shield, then scoffed at herself for her stupidity. As if they would be of any real use if he… if his intentions were to…

"Your fear is not nearly as becoming as your smile. You were not so scared of me before."

The room was dark, no morning sunlight breaking through flimsy curtains, a warm reminder that even in the midst of winter there was reason to get up to begin the day.

Instead there was only a single lamp in the far corner, doing little to illuminate the space and causing menacing shadows to cling and quiver as the man moved toward her.

"_Stop _moving!"

To her relative surprise he obeyed, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "I shall repeat, there is no reason to be so frightened. You are perfectly safe."

She tried to quell her panic, tried to calm her racing heart so she could think better. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the door with intense longing.

"If you would prefer to continue our conversation in the living room, that would be most acceptable."

Her gaze flickered back to him, not at all understanding his calm demeanor as she tried to process his initial words. "What did you mean, 'before'?"

He sighed and took a tentative step closer. Maybe he only meant it to be a small movement, but with his natural stride it brought him uncomfortably near to the bed.

To her.

She recoiled, her back pressed firmly against the headboard.

And perhaps absurdly, she wanted to dive back under the covers and pray to awaken in her own apartment, all of this merely a dream.

"Calm yourself, Christine. I can practically hear your heart beat with terror. There is no need. You are safe and I mean you no harm."

She stared at him incredulously. "No harm? You took me from my home!"

Thoughts of home sent a new wave of distress as she pictured poor Boo locked away in her apartment. She had not told anyone that she had taken in a pet, so none would come looking, no one would know to come to feed him, to clean his litter box, to kiss him and give him cuddles…

"Please," she tried again, this time measuring her voice as best she could. Her orders had so far not moved him in any way, but perhaps if she pleaded for the life of her cat… "I have to go back home. No one knows about my cat and while you may not care about me, you wouldn't let a kitten starve to death, frightened and alone would you? Just… let me take care of Boo…"

She didn't mean to start crying. But if anything her words only seemed to offend him as he drew to his full height and crossed his arms, his eyes—eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light of the room—narrowing the longer she spoke.

"You believe I left your familiar behind? Why would I have given him to you only to then allow for his demise?" His head tilted to the side, and his tone was one of genuine confusion. "You did not think me a monster before. What has changed?" His eyes narrowed further and he stared down at the bed as if it had somehow displeased him, even as his voice began to soften. "Is the bed not to your liking?"

She gaped at him, her tears beginning to abate. "I… what…"

And then suddenly she realized. The tall figure with his suddenly his masked features. Handwriting that she had studied so carefully in the jury room that was so similar to the notes delivered with her roses…

"Erik?"

"One and the same." This time he really did bow, and as her confusion rose, her fear began to abate.

At least a little.

"What are you doing? Why…"

His mouth, what little she could see of it, formed a thin line. "Perhaps we shall save that particular discussion for another day. I believe it is customary to consume breakfast at this time."

He stepped closer and offered his arm, but she only stared at it, her thoughts all a jumble. "Another day? Erik, what is going on? The trial was over! You were free to go! What am I doing here?"

"Not today. You will not like it if we discuss it today. You will be angry and then you will not wish to smile at me anymore."

So dumbfounded was she at his presumption that she would wish to smile at him _now _that she could not manage to scrounge up a retort.

"Now, while I understand that you may not wish to touch Erik yet, I would advise you do so; at least until you ensure that your legs are functioning adequately."

It was all too much. Her relocation, learning that the man she had defended for weeks was now capable of kidnapping… she was overwhelmed and frightened and didn't have the least idea of what she should do.

So numbly she reached out and took his arm, gratified that she was still in her oversized nightie that she had donned before going to bed.

Had it really only been the previous night?

"Why wouldn't my legs be working properly?"

Erik watched her carefully as he opened the door and ushered her into a comfortable looking living room. "Everyone reacts differently to a sedative. It is therefore best to be cautious."

"Oh."

How was one to respond when an intimidating man so calmly states that a sedative had unwittingly been given?

She felt so incredibly stupid. Richard had been right. While she had criticized and condemned other people for judging Erik for his appearance, she had been guilty of the opposite. Instead, she had managed to excuse everything so as to be kind to him, certain that a harsh world was merely refusing to see the good in him. She had felt sorry for his circumstances and was now facing the consequence of her naïveté.

Her legs did feel a bit sluggish as she shuffled to the sofa, and she was grateful when she was seated and she could pull her hand away from his arm.

The living room had a fireplace, a welcoming blaze adding warmth that the bedroom had lacked. There were more lamps as well, and now that she could see properly, she noticed that he was still wearing a fine suit, similar to the ones he had worn to court. It had felt soft beneath her fingertips, and clearly she had been correct about their fine quality.

She still felt the urge to cry.

Especially when she heard a plaintive meow and she saw her little Boo walk in from some unknown part of their prison.

"Boo!"

She forgot about shaky legs and muddled thoughts as she hurried to scoop him up, bestowing kisses wherever she could.

He gave a mild squeak in greeting that eventually gave way to a lowly rumbled purr as he enjoyed her attention.

"I am pleased you are so taken with him."

She found it much easier to focus on Boo than to glance at Erik. "How could I not be? He's perfect." She swallowed thickly as she systematically checked over his silky fur, looking for any evidence of hurts.

There were none.

"What did you mean before… that you had given him?"

Erik gave an elegant shrug that she caught from the corner of her eye. "He came upon me during one of my… outings. I could hardly leave him to starve and I am certain the facility would not have appreciated his presence so I brought him to you."

His head tilted ever so slightly to the left. "You did not mind, did you? I did not want you to be _lonely._"

There was something strange in the way he said that, as if he was nearly mocking the word.

But Boo began to wriggle, having had quite enough of her affections and hesitantly she obliged by placing him on the floor. Her distraction gone she forced herself to look at Erik, his mask disconcerting in the extreme. "I was lonely… I have been for quite some time."

It felt wrong to ask him anything. She still did not know why she was here—why he had taken her. And while she was relieved that Boo was safe and not forgotten, the fact that he had brought him seemed to indicate that she would be with him for quite some time.

And that frightened her considerably.

But his mask only made things worse. It was clear from his posture in the courtroom that he was uncomfortable with his face being on display, but she had no idea that he took to covering it so in other circumstances.

She realized then that Mr. Chagny had been offering his mask back to him before he had even left the courthouse.

Had he donned it and immediately began plotting her abduction?

She shuddered.

"Are you cold? I admit, I am unused to others being in my home and I was uncertain of a temperature you would find pleasing."

She crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she had a robe to cover her nightgown. There was nothing immodest about it—and in some perverse way she was grateful that he had taken her so late in the year when her short nightgowns had long since been abandoned in favor of warmer variations.

But still, she was unused to appearing so in front of a man, and it made her uneasy.

"Please, why do you wear the mask? It is not as though I do not know what you look like, and… and I know who you are. So you can't think I couldn't give your identity to the police if I ever…"

"Escape? Doubtful, but I will not insult you by suggesting you are incapable of finding a way out, however slim the possibility might be." He said this so matter-of-factly that she had to suppress another shiver. She had heard the doctor's testimony—that he _knew _things that other men wouldn't. She had believed him when he spoke of his great intelligence, but to have it used against her…

"But to answer your question, I wear the mask for your benefit as well as mine. You were subjected to my hideousness for far too long, and you needn't be reminded of it now."

That caught her by surprise. "I didn't… that wasn't what I was thinking when I looked at you."

He chuckled darkly. "Wasn't it?" He stopped and looked at her curiously. "Yet you barely look at me _now. _Does that mean that you enjoyed looking at a freak? I did not think you cruel."

Christine shook her head, that feeling of being completely overwhelmed returning tenfold. He was unstable, that much was clear. He gave no indication of what he wanted of her, and she was wholly unprepared to deal with any of this.

She staggered back to the sofa and sat down, the cushions a welcoming softness in contrast to her lumpy one back home.

"What am I doing here, Erik?" she finally asked, already feeling tired and worn.

She wondered if going back to bed was a viable option.

He didn't answer, not at first. He merely stared at her, unearthly still and so very tall even from the respectable distance he kept between them. She folded her legs up underneath her, biting back her inquiry if he minded that her feet would be on the furniture.

Surely when one was kidnapped they were allowed a bit of rudeness.

"I do not think it is wise to answer that question now. You are not crying and I should like to keep it that way for as long a time as possible. Perhaps when you are more settled."

She felt hysterical laughter bubbling up within her, and she released a choked sound that made Erik's eyes widen with alarm. "Settle in? So I am to stay with you? Here? I have work! I have a life and you… you cannot simply…"

He folded his hands meekly in front of him, and he bowed his head in some strange semblance of supplication. "You would not have wanted to see me. You would not have come with me if I had simply asked."

Christine blinked dumbly. "I _fought _for you. Others thought you were guilty and for days I argued that you hadn't done those terrible things." She laughed bitterly. "I guess I was wrong."

Erik moved then, but not to throttle her as she had half-expected. Instead he went to the mantel and picked up a notepad.

And as he shuffled through the pages she caught a glimpse of doodles and scribbles in handwriting that looked suspiciously like her own.

Her dread intensified as did her embarrassment.

For he would see precisely how fooled she had been by her own perceptions, a gullible child in a world meant for seasoned adults with wisdom and experience.

A world meant for those who understood the law.

"_Erik is not a monster. _You wrote that, did you not? One of your fellow jurors did not reach over and maim your page with it?" He turned the notepad so that she could indeed see the phrase that she had stared at more than once during deliberations. It had been a source of comfort, a reminder for what she argued for when others seemed determine to think the worst of him.

It mocked her now.

"Yes, I wrote it," she admitted quietly.

"Excellent. For a moment I feared I rescued the wrong legal pad from extermination."

He continued to flip through the pages, and a sick feeling settled in her stomach. No one was supposed to see it—that was made very clear. Her notes exposed every thought and doubt she had throughout the trial and now he was casually perusing them.

Perusing a piece of her.

And what if he found something that angered him? She didn't know him, not at all really. And she was alone here, and he was so much bigger than her…

"Please, give it back."

His head tilted again. "Why?" There was nothing mocking in his tone, no indication that he thought her stupid for her words, but that did little to lessen her discomfort.

"It was supposed to be private. Just my thoughts on the case and questions I had."

He hummed and flipped to another page. "Not so. There are quite a few illustrations as well." He peered closer at something and for a moment she wished the sofa had the ability to swallow her.

It would be just her luck to discover that this man was also a brilliant artist, and at any moment he would laugh at her childish attempts.

She didn't know why that thought bothered her.

"Is this where you wish to live?"

He showed her the basic castle she had sketched into the margin, the stones terribly uneven and the turret all askew.

She tucked her knees under the skirt of her nightgown and rested her head on them, trying to not feel ashamed for her silliness.

"What girl doesn't want to live in a castle," she defended weakly.

He hummed again, a musical sound that would have been quite lovely if she was not feeling so terribly agitated. "I suppose. We may live there in time if you wish, but I must warn you, they tend to be quite drafty. You do not seem to like the cold very much."

She lifted her head and glanced at him. "Why do you say that?"

He smiled almost wistfully, the softening of his demeanor a direct contrast from his otherwise imposing figure. "You bundle. While others would walk in and wait for the centralized heating to warm them, once the weather turned colder you were never without full regalia—hat, scarf, gloves, coat, and so forth."

She blushed and tried to ascertain why. Perhaps it was the newness of being _noticed _so thoroughly. She could have understood if Richard had noted and thought to comment since he generally was the one who witnessed her morning ritual of stuffing such items into her purse so they wouldn't be lost for the walk to the bus stop, and on more than one occasion had picked up an errant glove or her hat that came free from the woolen bundle.

But Erik had noticed for some other reason, and it made her nervous.

"I like the cold very much."

He paused in his perusal of her notepad. "Oh?"

Christine nibbled her lip, wondering if it was wrong to divulge more than that. He had yet to state any of his intentions, had scoffed at the very idea of her trying to escape this place, and yet she merely sat on his sofa and considered explaining her opinion of the colder months.

But she was tired of thinking—was tired in general, and she decided that if he did something blatantly harmful, exhibited something truly obvious that he meant to hurt her in _any _way, then she would fight for all she was worth. But for now she would try to enjoy the comfortable couch and maybe the more he spoke to her, the more he would begin to realize all of this was just some terrible mistake.

Nothing that couldn't be rectified by simply seeing her home.

Preferably with the loan of a coat so that she did not have to face utilizing public transportation in nothing but her nightie.

"I like getting to wear my coat and gloves and hat. I like that the cold means thawing out with a cup of hot tea with my bed piled in blankets. I like watching the snow outside and thinking that it covers all the ugliness in the city in something pure and clean and… good."

She had stared into the fire as she spoke, but risked a peek at him in order to judge his reaction.

As intensely as she had watched at the flames, so too was he looking at her now. "I don't like walking in the rain much, though," she added awkwardly. "Gets me all wet and keeps me cold when I'm sitting in court or trying to serve tables."

He nodded, his eyes unmoving. "A terrible nuisance." She couldn't help but fidget uncomfortably as he continued to stare at her.

"May I… I mean… Do you have a robe? Or some clothes I could change into?"

He blinked, almost as if coming out of some kind of daze before returning her notepad to the mantel. "Of course. Forgive me; of course you would like some proper clothing."

Of the list of things that currently bothered her about Erik, she was not so certain that forgetting to provide her a robe was in fact the most disturbing.

She followed hesitantly when he returned to the bedroom, but she lingered outside the doorway as he opened a wardrobe and turned to her. "Well? Do you intend to change in the living area?"

She eyed the clothes hesitantly. They didn't seem terribly lewd or horrid in any way, but it seemed… very wrong to choose to be in the same room with him.

Especially a bedroom.

He frowned. "I see."

He took a step forward and she scooted a bit more to the side, not at all certain why she felt so ashamed at trying to preserve her modesty. Erik was in the wrong here, not her. And yet every time she considered doing something impolite, years of ingrained etiquette rebelled, leaving her feeling guilty and rude.

But instead of vacating the room as she had hoped, he opened an adjoining door. "The facilities, should you require them. I can assure you that these rooms are your own, and I will do my utmost to respect your privacy. There are locks, however," he eyed her sternly, "they are of little encumbrance to me should you do anything _foolish._"

She simply stared at him, not at all certain to what he could be referring. Keeping him out of her room? That did not seem so very foolish. Desiring to bathe and dress without a male audience? Also a reasonable desire.

"Foolish?"

He sighed. "I know you are confused, and I have not… adequately arranged for your stay here. I can assure you, all of this," he made a vague gesture about the room, "was not my intention." He took another breath, and this time his tone was soft and pleading. "But please, do not try to do yourself harm until I have at least explained myself to you."

She swallowed, words failing her. "I… I wouldn't… that hadn't even occurred to me! Why would you say something like that?"

Erik shifted ever so slightly, and she rather thought she'd embarrassed him. "My apologies. It seemed a worthy precaution."

Her eyes narrowed, her bewilderment offering some semblance of bravery. "Do you intend to do anything that would _make _me consider it?"

His mouth fell open. "Hardly."

Some small kernel of amusement made her smile, despite the dreadful situation. "Alright then, so for now may I please have some privacy to change?"

He nodded and moved past her, allowing her to have the bedroom to herself.

But before she could close and lock the door, no matter how futile the action might prove, he stopped her, his slender hand pressed against the thick wood of the door.

"Christine…"

He was so very close to her and the way he was looking at her made her heart beat a little faster.

"Yes?"

He appeared ready to say something, something important, but instead he merely sighed and allowed his hand to fall away. "Everything shall be well, you will see."

And as she closed the door, she sincerely hoped she could believe him.

* * *

Sooo... those of you who guessed it was Erik, you were proven right! The question remains, then, why did he take her? They had built a very decent rapport so he _must _have a good reason, right? What do you think it might have been? Any of you upset about his actions or are you excited for what this will mean for him?

And can we all at the very least be glad that he's finally spoken?!

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	15. Chapter 15

Well, so far you've all been very good sports about Erik's... rash decision making. He and I both thank you for it! I think it's important for us all to remember that there's nothing... normal... about our dear Erik (no matter how much he'd like to pretend!) so with that is going to come the bumps and challenges of his... unique approach to doing things.

Anyway, one quick side note. If you guys see typos, as always, _please _feel free to point them out directly. I do what I can (as do my pre-readers and Beta) but we're all capable of error (well, except for Erik. He's never made a mistake a day in his life.), and so if something sticks out at you and you feel so inclined, just let me know and I will fix it!

But enough of that. Onward!

* * *

XV

The tendrils of fear licked at her heart as soon as the door was shut and she faced the shadowy bedroom once more. She hurried over to the bedside table and fiddled with the lamp, but no matter how she looked or touched or nudged, there did not seem to be a knob of any kind that would turn it on.

She barely contained her whimper.

She had never much cared for the dark.

Her papa had said her imagination was too vivid, that as soon as a single wisp of some terror made its way into her mind, she couldn't get it out again. He would laugh and tease in order to soothe her, opening cupboards and closet doors with all the dutiful care of a loving parent. Yet even with his demonstrations that there was in fact nothing horrible lurking in the darkness, Christine would beg for a small light to be left on, lest she worry that some creature would rise from underneath her bed and latch on to any extended appendages.

And to her embarrassment, this had continued well into her adolescent years.

But then there was no papa to frighten away her ghosts, and she had become well practiced in moving quickly from switch to lamp, a trail of light in her wake.

Yet in Erik's world he seemed to control even illumination, and that did little to soothe her already frayed nerves.

At the very least he had turned on the light within the bathroom, which did add a certain brightness to the bedroom as she searched through the wardrobe for something appropriate.

She wanted to be covered. She wanted something that was not in the least bit alluring. But as she looked through the clothing so carefully placed on wooden hangers, she realized that while all quite different in terms of distinct articles, they all were so very soft to the touch. And while Christine would have loved to have continued running her hands along the fine fabrics, a knot of dread formed in her stomach as she pictured Erik's desire to do the same, only with _her _in them.

She found a long skirt and sweater that she would not ordinarily have put together, but when combined with a pair of thick fuzzy socks she discovered within a drawer, she decided it was suitable enough.

When she opened the adjacent drawer, to her horror she found all manner of underthings, ranging in style and fabric, some intricate lace while others the most delicate of cottons, all pretty and most assuredly _alluring._

Christine would have liked to shut the drawer and ignore it forever, but she was not about to go without—the very idea was too mortifying for words.

Christine grabbed the plainest set she could find and swiftly entered the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. She didn't know if she believed him about his ability to undo locks—although perhaps his capacity for stalking her while still incarcerated indicated that she should—but it made her feel better to latch it all the same.

The bath was large—much wider and deeper than any she had seen in the apartments she'd lived in growing up. She frowned, realizing that this probably meant that _Erik _used this bathroom as well, and the tub was designed to suit his extraordinary frame.

She wouldn't think about that now. She would tend to her more immediate needs and then go back out, bravely and calmly, to discuss what was to be done.

He had seemed so sweet before. All shy smiles and gentlemanly gestures, and she wished that her imagined view of his character had not been so cruelly shattered.

But it was, and there was no ignoring that.

Christine didn't dare make use of the bathtub, but instead ran hot water and found a washcloth, keeping her nightgown on as she hastily scrubbed at her skin. She was reminded of the testimony of Miss Jammes about the man peeping in at her, and while she had immediately dismissed it before, in light of recent discoveries it seemed prudent to be cautious—no matter how much she wished that it wasn't true.

She was grateful for the socks as a reprieve against the cold tile of the floor, and she tugged them up high upon her calves to warm as much of her as possible. The skirt she donned before even removing her nightgown, just in case there were any peering eyes where there most assuredly should not have been. The bra and new panties followed, and to her added embarrassment she found them both to fit remarkably.

Lastly she donned the sweater, and she was certain that it was made of the same sort of material as Erik's own suit—cashmere maybe?

She couldn't help running her finger over the sleeve for a moment, marveling at its suppleness.

At last satisfied that she was decently covered, she reentered the bedroom and contemplated whether or not to venture out into the living area once more. At least she was alone here, her safety temporarily assured, but yet there seemed to be little purpose in hiding. He likely had the key, and if he wished to demand her company he could easily do so.

And Boo was out there…

With a deep breath she pushed open the door, only to stop short as her silky friend brushed passed her with a mew of displeasure that she had shut him out in the first place.

"I would have granted him entrance, but I thought you would be offended that I opened the door without your express permission."

She jumped, not having noticed him seated upon a large leather chair and evidently waiting for her emergence.

Christine glanced behind her only to see Boo prowling about the bedroom, inspecting and rubbing against different items in turn.

"I don't have many doors at home. I guess he isn't used to anything separating us."

That was not exactly true, as the door to the bathroom in her apartment was obviously utilized, his little black paws often coming under the door in a desperate plea for entrance.

"Then I suppose I must fashion a mechanism to allow him freedom throughout the house." He said this quite calmly, his eyes darting about the room in an assessing manner.

And while she might have been endeared to the notion that he was so willing to make changes to his home to accommodate Boo, it was yet another reminder that his intentions were for them both to remain here for an indeterminate amount of time.

She shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what she should do now. Erik sat stiffly in his chair, a large tome balanced on the arm.

"I didn't mean to interrupt if you were reading." Christine started inching back through the door in case he was upset by her intrusion, but he waved his hand indifferently.

"Nonsense. I have had a lifetime to read in solitude. I did not bring you here to lock you away in your bedchamber."

Christine swallowed. "That's… good."

Erik's mouth formed a thin line. "Quite. Now, can I interest you in breakfast? I shall presume that your barren cupboards are a result of a lack of funds and not a distaste for food in general."

She blushed. She did not know why she should be embarrassed, but the reminder that she was incapable of providing for herself in a way that would ensure her cupboards were always fully stocked—somehow it stung when coming from this man.

"I was perfectly all right. I never went hungry…"

That was a blatant falsehood, but from the way Erik looked at her, there was nothing successful about her deception.

"Indeed. So then you preferred to eat inadequate meals of your own accord. Perhaps we should revisit the issue of whether or not you would do yourself harm."

Indignation welled within her, the words escaping before she could consider the hurt they might cause. "You are far skinnier than me, so I hardly think you're one to make accusations!"

His lips pursed and his eyes darkened, and before she was even consciously aware of doing so, she took another step backward.

But his rage did not come, only a huffed breath as he rose from his seat. "Perhaps you are right, although I can assure you, if you were subjected to prison food I doubt you would be interested in their offerings."

Christine flinched, the reminder of where he had spent the last few months an unexpected pinch at her heart. "I'm sorry. Of course you would not be interested in eating there. Especially not when they…" she forced herself to stop speaking lest she say something even more upsetting.

Yet Erik took a step forward, his expression inscrutable. "Oh? And what did _they _do?"

She bit her lip, trying hastily to determine if he was angry with her for her thoughtlessness. "The bruises," she murmured, almost wishing he could not hear her.

For whether or not she had been mistaken in regards to the charges against him, the bruises that had littered his exposed flesh were real—evidence that he had suffered and was worthy of at least some modicum of compassion.

"Ah yes, a symbol of humanity's goodwill." His head cocked to the side. "Did they trouble you? Surely they did not make my visage even worse."

She gaped at him. "Of course it did!"

It was the wrong thing to say, for this time he flinched away from her, his shoulders hunching as he stared down at the ground. "I see."

His devastation was clear, and despite everything he had done, or might have done, she felt awful immediately.

"No, please, that's not what I meant. I didn't like to see you hurt!"

He glanced at her, and for the first time she saw a glimpse of the shy man she had first smiled at in the courtroom. His eyes were full of distrust, the pain in them so clear. "You did not?" His eyes narrowed. "Would you still not? After what I have done?"

She sighed and glanced about the house she had yet to truly explore. "You mean because you kidnapped me?"

He nodded haltingly, almost as if he was suppressing his desire to argue with her.

"Erik… this wasn't all right. Drugging me, bringing me here…" If possible, he seemed to shrink into himself even further, and that strange pang within her heart throbbed yet again. "But that doesn't mean I want you to suffer—that I'd want you to be abused."

He hummed, and seemed unconvinced at her answer.

"Couldn't you have…"

She kicked herself for yet again entering into a conversation she was unprepared to have, especially not when Erik seemed to be disappearing before her very eyes the longer they spoke.

But Erik was curious and he braved glancing at her again. "Couldn't I what?"

She swallowed. "Have defended yourself." She scrambled to drop the subject as he stared at her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't judge. I'm certain if someone tried to hurt me I wouldn't know what to do."

He barked a laugh, a harsh and incredulous sound that made her nervous. "Firstly, I can assure you that you will never be put in a position where you would be harmed in such a manner—not by anyone. And secondly, it was not from lack of skill that I was hurt, but from lack of will. Sometimes it does not seem worth the energy to even ward off the blows."

Christine couldn't even imagine such a thing. The implication that it happened so frequently—that he had simply given up hope of his life being free of such beatings—hung thickly between them.

"What changed?" she asked quietly, remembering how the wounds had faded as the trial progressed.

His shoulders straightened and he stood up taller. And this time when he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze nearly took her breath away. "I met you."

It was not what she expected. Perhaps that he had finally had enough and stood up against his tormenters. Or maybe that he had reported the abuse to a prison guard or the warden and they had put a stop to it. But she never thought that simply her acknowledgement of him, that merely her _looking _at him, had changed something.

"I… I don't know what to say."

Truly she didn't. Not when the very prospect frightened her, for it likely meant he had grown attached to her.

And how did she explain that over the course of the trial, she had determined to begin living as well?

But Erik shook his head. "You need not say anything. I promised you food and have delayed it too long already. Come with me."

They passed through another hallway, and she tried not to wonder what was held behind the closed doors.

Other girls?

Yet even as she thought it, the way he looked at her, the notion felt wrong.

This experience had made her doubt her instincts about him, but maybe it was all right to cling to some of the most fundamental ones… at least until he proved them wrong.

At the end of the hall they turned right, and without even a flick of his hand, the darkened room was filled with light.

Finally it occurred to her. "Are they on motion sensors?"

Erik went to the refrigerator without turning to her. "In a manner of speaking."

Well. That was not very helpful.

Especially when it gave her no further indication of how to make the bedroom lamps cooperate.

"I admit my own failure to ascertain your preferred breakfasting items, so you shall have to provide some measure of direction."

She wondered if that _failure _stemmed from a lack of surveillance on his part, or from her own meager offerings when it came to her morning meal.

With some bemusement she guessed it to be the latter.

"I don't really know."

He turned to her, his expression mildly horrified. "You mean to say that you do not remember what it is like to eat breakfast?"

She blushed, for that certainly wasn't true.

Breakfast with her papa had been a staple growing up. Before she left for school and he hurried off to work, they would take the time to eat together. Some mornings they would talk, or he would help her with a particularly troublesome assignment, other times they would divvy up parts of the newspaper, him with Fine Arts and her pouring over the funny pages.

Lunches were had at school, and frequently he would miss dinner if rehearsals went late, but breakfast was a sacred thing between them.

And ever since he had died, she had typically spurned the breakfast ritual, preferring to make a cup of tea and eat on her way somewhere—or perhaps even forego the meal altogether.

"Can I just… look and see what you have?"

He grimaced at that but relented, stepping away from the fridge and allowing her to peruse its contents.

She had forgotten what a full refrigerator looked like.

Most things were sealed, most things looking newly purchased, and she briefly wondered if he had bought things just for her—only to then kick herself as she remembered he had only _just _been released from lockup.

When had she become so self-centered?

There were eggs and bundles of carefully packed meats in white paper that could potentially hold bacon… but even the thought of making something so similar to what she shared with her papa—especially with her captor, turned her stomach.

"What do you usually have?"

That seemed safe enough. If she made it so that he was forced to make the decisions, at least she could absolve herself with the knowledge that she was merely following his lead.

And then promptly felt guilty for not having the courage to take responsibility for herself. Her papa would not mind. She had never pretended that he would approve the way she had pushed away something so important to them.

Just as he would have been so cross with her the way she had ignored her music so completely—at least until recently.

Erik's lip curled slightly in distaste. "Perhaps we have something in common, for I am not one to indulge in a morning repast."

Her stomach chose that moment to clutch painfully, and it finally occurred to her to ask how long she had slept—how long he had _made _her sleep.

"It's been more than one night that I've been here, hasn't it."

It was a statement and not a question.

The way she had felt when she first awoke was more than simply coming out of a drugged stupor, but was much more like a terrible fog from sleeping far, far too long. Her body ached slightly as her muscles remembered what it was to move freely, and again that trickle of fear reminded her that the man offering her breakfast was not above overpowering her to get what he wanted.

She frowned at the thought.

"The amount of sedative I gave you should not have caused you to sleep so. Evidently your body merely used it to provide you with much needed rest."

That did not answer her question, but from the look of displeasure on his face, she fretted over whether or not to press the issue.

"You were in a state of near exhaustion. The fools you work with did not appreciate you, and then you…" he shook his head, his voice little more than a whisper, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than to her. "What else was I to do? It was right to bring you here… It _was…"_

He was growing more agitated, and the unpredictability of his moods made her uneasy.

"Is there cereal?" she blurted, hoping to distract him from whatever thoughts were beginning to plague him.

Erik stopped fidgeting and blinked before taking a breath. "Of course."

Her eyes widened as he opened a cupboard. She had expected perhaps a box of Raisin Bran, maybe some Cheerios, but the entire thing was filled with perfectly lined boxes, ranging from those appealing to health conscious individuals, to sugary delights that made her teeth ache slightly just at the sight of them.

Her first impulse was to ask if he had bought them all for her, but her new determination not to make assumptions stayed her tongue.

"Quite the connoisseur."

He gave a little shrug, and she was left with the distinct impression that she had embarrassed him. "I did not know what would be to your liking."

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she merely stepped closer, keeping careful distance between herself and Erik, and made her selection. She pulled the box down cautiously, utilizing her left hand to ensure her elbow did not brush against his person. He made no effort to be nearer, but he closed his eyes briefly before she moved away from him.

And when he opened them again there was a sad wistfulness that made her sorry. "I do not want you to be unhappy here. I do not know what to offer you, what would help to make your stay more comfortable. I did not… intend for you to become my prisoner."

Christine wondered what he thought would happen when he made the conscious choice to drug her, to take her sleeping form to… wherever they were. But by every appearance he seemed sincere, as if her reaction to these deliberate events genuinely surprised him.

It made her all the more confused.

She fiddled with the unopened box top. "Maybe you could start by telling me what you did intend. What you… want from me."

He was quiet for a long while as he leaned against the black countertop, watching as she opened cupboards and drawers in search of a bowl and spoon. It was a reach for her as everything seemed especially suited to his much longer frame, but she managed relatively well.

She had to get close to him again to get the milk, but yet again he did nothing untoward, even going so far as to move his arm away from her when she accidently brushed the carton against his sleeve.

There was no table in the kitchen and finally when she had poured the milk and began eating it, mimicking his posture as she did so, he abruptly vacated the room with a commanding, "Come."

With some hesitation she obeyed, mildly annoyed both at being ordered and because she did not want her cereal to get soggy.

He led her through to a dining room, a long rectangular table dominating the space. It was beautiful and shiny, and she was relatively certain that this particular space was rarely used.

It felt wrong to corrupt such a fine table with something as silly as cereal.

But he was pulling out a chair and looking at her expectantly, and yet again she acquiesced.

He took a seat opposite her, and told herself firmly that she would scold him if he stared while she ate, but instead his gaze was fixed on a seam within the highly polished wood, his lips pulled into a tight frown.

She tried not to slurp.

"Already you question your initial impression of me—that because I have… brought you here, that suddenly I am guilty of Poligny's murder."

She sighed, pushing around the little squares of cereal with her spoon. "I didn't… all I meant was that clearly you're capable of doing shocking… very _wrong _things. Maybe you did kill him, but I know I could not have found you guilty with the case Mr. Sorelli presented."

Erik scoffed. "Judge Albright was right to censure him. As if such absurd pieces of testimony could replace genuine evidence."

It gratified her somewhat to hear him speak of the case. Somewhow she had grown comfortable with the process of the trial, with hearing witnesses and the bickering of the attorneys.

And in some small way, it reminded her of the good opinion she had toward this man before… well, before all of this.

"But you doubt it now," he mused, more a statement than a question.

Christine ate the last of her cereal and wondered if Erik would think it terribly rude for her to drink the last of the sweetened milk that was leftover.

"I do not know what to believe."

He nodded at that, sadness exuding from him. "Quite reasonable," he agreed, but still he would not look at her. "And I don't suppose that by simply telling you what happened would help convince you of my character." Another statement.

Her brow furrowed. "It would be a start at least. So far you haven't told me _anything._ About any of this, either," she waved vaguely at their surroundings.

Erik dismissed that quickly. "I shall give you a proper tour after your breakfast." He leaned forward and finally looked at her, his eyes bright and intense. "But it is important for you to know whether or not I killed that man, yes? That would make you feel more comfortable here with me?"

Her confusion was growing as his urgent tone—as if some kind of plan was forming in his mind and her answer would determine his next course of action.

She wondered if now was the time to start drinking her milk, simply to avoid him.

"I… I do not like to think that you were capable of hurting him. Because then what if I did something to make you angry and… you…"

His tone gentled for a moment, his gaze equally soft. "That would not happen, Christine. I would never harm you, no matter what you said or did."

She wished she could believe him.

But even without saying it, he seemed to recognize her continued unease, for he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I had hoped we could put the entire business behind us, but I can see that this is important to you. You may trust me, Christine. But perhaps my word is not sufficient."

Whether or not he killed Mr. Poligny was not at all the root of her distrust of him, but he did not seem prepared to acknowledge how _wrong _and upsetting his decision to kidnap her truly was. Apparently it was better to focus on this, something he believed could unequivocally prove his innocence and restore her faith in him.

"What do you intend to do?" she queried nervously.

This time his grin was full of mischief, something that frightened her all the more.

"We are going to have a new trial. And this time you shall know the truth of what transpired."

* * *

Sooo... looks like they have a ways to go on this whole communication thing! Somehow I think they'll have time to work on it though... at least, if Erik has anything to say about it!

And what do you think he means about another trial? Ominous, no? Will he turn himself in?

Thanks so much for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

Another long chapter today! I hope everyone is enjoying the holiday season (and for those of you finishing up semesters, that you are surviving finals!). I'm actually considering taking a week off (for the first time ever!) so I can enjoy my own Christmas celebrations with fewer distractions and less self-inflicted guilt should I miss a writing day. I'm not entirely certain how this will affect posting, so it will be a surprise for all of us!

But anyway, onward!

* * *

XVI

She tried to get him to explain—to tell her of what this new trial might mean, but he only waggled a long, gloved finger at her. "You shall have to wait, my dear. Erik needs time to think."

That was precisely what terrified her.

A part of her wondered if he meant to be arrested again. Perhaps he would deliver some evidence of Mr. Sorelli and the trial would begin anew. But how would he ensure that she was again on the jury? She supposed he could demand she remain in the audience, ever watchful as new testimony and old was given before the court. And it meant she could go home…

She brightened at that, but did not wish to seem too eager, so she mentioned one of the other elements that was pressing on her mind. "They'll be looking for me at the restaurant. I'll get fired and then whenever… well… when this," she glanced about the windowless dining room, "is over, I'll have to find work somewhere else. I like that job…"

But far from being moved by her plea, Erik gave a mild derisive laugh. "You _liked _waiting on ingrates and wasting your talents on untrained ears?"

She frowned and sat back in her chair. "It's not like that."

He stared at her pointedly.

"Okay, it isn't _always _like that. Some of the diners are very appreciative of my efforts and my singing! In fact, some even wrote to Carlotta and specifically requested I be put back on the roster."

Even as she spoke the words, with Erik's gaze never wavering from hers, she realized.

"You did that."

He inclined his head ever so slightly.

"You seemed an angel in the courthouse. One sent just for me. I admit my curiosity, and I wanted to know if you had a voice to match. You did not disappoint," he praised.

Christine sat there numbly. She liked the idea that she had touched one of the diners so thoroughly that they had taken the time from their otherwise busy schedules to ensure management knew of their appreciation. But instead it was Erik, exerting his will and providing more evidence that while the question of his status as a murderer might yet be unconfirmed, his profession as an extortionist seemed more than likely.

"You… you…" She could not even find the words to express how he had hurt her, so she trailed off with a whimper before shoving aside the bowl of untouched milk and burying her head in her arms.

_If you can't see him, then he can't see you…_

"Christine? Christine, what is wrong? The milk was fresh so you cannot have been poisoned…"

She almost rolled her eyes at that. No, she had not been tainted by sour milk. _He _had done that. He was the one who had entered her home and given her a potion or an injection or… something that had made her sleep too long and made her head fuzzy and her legs sore. And then he acted as if everything could be all right again…

It was all too much. Communicating with him seemed impossible, as his thoughts and reasoning were wholly disconnected from hers—especially when he hardly seemed interested in _answering _her questions. He could see her upset but instead of realizing her troubles stemmed from his own thoughtless actions, he firmly relegated it to a possibility he was more comfortable with. And as of yet, she had not found the courage to correct him.

Until now.

Her head jerked upward and she knew she must look rather demented with her flushed cheeks and overly bright eyes. "Why did you have to do this? You made me think that people _cared _about me… that they…" She had to swallow the lump in her throat in order to continue. "Did you also bribe the woman in the grocery store when I was shopping for Boo's things? Am I that pathetic to you?"

Erik's eyes were darting about the room, and she was left with the impression that he would like nothing more than to flee from her.

She understood the feeling well.

It filled her with a sense of power that she could make him feel nervous, if only for a moment.

"I… it was never my intention to make you believe I viewed you in so low a manner…" he finally managed, although she noted that he could not bring himself to look at her.

"You say that often. Yet when I ask what your intentions actually are, you evade, or tell me to wait, or dismiss it entirely!"

He was silent, and she noted with some bemusement that his shoulders had tensed and he grew slightly hunched, as if to ward off the sting of her words.

She was torn between feeling vindicated that something had finally reached him, and horror that she had wounded an already tortured soul.

"What is… what would you like to know?"

_Everything _was the reply she wanted to give, but instead she went with the question that she had only just thought to ask. "How did you drug me?"

It seemed most relevant to her current predicament. If she was uncooperative, or did something to displease him, would he do it again? Perhaps if she knew how he had done it before, she could circumvent it in future—at least, if he was truthful.

But as she regarded him, she thought that at least for now, he would be honest with her.

And there was little else for her to use beyond her instincts when dealing with this man.

His lips thinned and it was obvious he would prefer not to answer, but after picking away a piece of lint from his fine suit, he managed a response. "It was a mild sedative to make the journey here more comfortable for you."

She did roll her eyes at that.

"I asked _how._"

He shifted uneasily in his seat and when at last he spoke his tone was flat, devoid of emotion. "An injection. In your left foot. I peeled back only enough of the bedclothes to uncover your appendage, before inserting a prepared syringe between your first and second phalanges. It was a sterile needle, and the solution was one I am quite familiar with, so you were in no danger and will suffer no furthering complications."

"Other than a headache and legs that might not want to cooperate."

He grimaced. "Perhaps. Although I am more inclined to believe that any lingering discomfort would be from sleeping such duration, and not necessarily because of my intervention."

She sighed. "You don't like to take responsibility, do you?"

Erik flinched. "I do not like to think that I have caused you pain. It was never my inten…" he halted abruptly as he glanced at her, and evidently thought better of using that word again. "I didn't want this."

She leaned forward slightly. "You didn't want what? For me to be angry? For me to be wary of you?"

He shook his head firmly. "Of course not. I only wanted…"

He hesitated, and his entire posture made it perfectly plain that he was about to bolt. So she softened her tone and forced down her exasperation, and remembered the compassion she had felt for him.

"What did you want, Erik? Maybe if you just explain I can start to feel more comfortable here."

It was a vague sort of hope, and not one that she put much stock in, but it was true enough.

He stood so quickly she jumped. "You were so lonely_._ Lonely and so perfectly lovely, and no one appreciated you! No one _saw._ But I did! I saw and I took and you weren't mine. And you would never _be _mine, not after…"

"After…"

He lurched away from her and strode from the room, and she barely caught his whispered response. "After you found someone else."

There was something so wounded about him as he fled the room, and despite her lingering annoyance, something in her tugged in sympathy at having been the cause.

Did he truly do all this because of Joe?

When at last she vacated the dining room, taking her tepid milk and soiled bowl with her to the kitchen, there was no sign of Erik—not that she tried very hard to find him.

He had promised a tour after her breakfast, and since he no longer seemed interested in being her escort, she wandered through rooms, finding most locked and she did not try very hard to get into them. They had to be barred for a reason, and the last thing she wanted was for him to finally appear and catch her somewhere she was not supposed to be.

Christine scoffed at herself.

She wasn't supposed to be _anywhere _here. She was meant to be in her apartment, or the restaurant or…

There wasn't really somewhere else.

And that made her feel all the more pathetic.

She was an adult in possession of all… well… _most _of her faculties, and yet she barely made enough to scrape a life from.

And as she made her way back to the bedroom, she realized that she had no one to blame for that but herself.

She had been a mere ghost of herself since her papa died, doing only what was necessary but little more. There had been no joy, no relationships, and she recognized now that her father would have been so disappointed.

Erik was right on one score. She had been lonely.

But as she thought of the face he now so carefully concealed behind a mask, he must be lonely too. Yet unlike her own self-inflicted isolation, his had likely been because of something far more tangible.

And the little prickles of compassion that had become so pronounced during the trial returned. It most certainly did not make his reaction okay—but it seemed a better solution to reason with him and convince him to let her go of his own accord than to sulk and cry and look for escape.

She did not wish to see him angry.

But she also realized she did not wish to see him hurt either.

And after the way she'd spoken to him…

There was no denying that she had hurt him.

Christine wandered back through the house, noting the strange architecture of the place as she looked around for more signs of Erik. There was no movement, no sign of another presence within the house, but the more she looked, the more she started to notice strange details that seemed entirely unique to this particular dwelling. There were no signs of electrical sockets, and even upon closer inspection, she still couldn't find any light switches or knobs to work the lamps. Heavy velvet draperies hung grandly upon the walls, but when she went closer to admire them, she realized that no window lay beneath.

Odd.

But for the moment she pushed away her curiosity, determined now to see Erik and find some kind of resolution to their little… problem.

Yet time dragged on and there was no sign of her… kidnapper? Acquaintance? And there weren't any clocks that could inform her how much time had passed.

Unsure of what else she was supposed to do, she curled up in the leather chair Erik had utilized, picking up the heavy book still sitting on the arm. It was a beautiful tome, one that belonged in a fine library, and she felt rather unqualified to flip through the pages. It seemed to be an anthology of various fiction; and while she hoped she wasn't doing anything she shouldn't, she settled more comfortably into the cushions of the chair, focusing on the words before her.

Eventually however her stomach reminded her that breakfast had long since ended, and she was forced to halt her readings. It was surprisingly engrossing, and she realized how little time she devoted to her once favored pastime.

Except that like so many things in her life, it hadn't been solely hers.

And that too she had ignored, preferring to abandon what gave her pain.

Boo had plopped in front of the fire in the living room, placidly washing his face as he enjoyed the heat of the flames. She rose and walked toward him, crouching down and giving him a stroke which he accepted readily—although she noted with a chuckle that as soon as her hand left his side, he washed the area clean again.

"I'm sorry, Boo. I didn't mean to taint you. Have you seen Erik? I'm getting rather hungry and I don't know if I'm allowed to make use of the kitchen."

Large golden green eyes blinked at her mildly, but he made no further move to help in her search.

"Big help you are."

She kissed the top of his head, relishing this temporary peace. After her breakfast her head had begun to stop throbbing so terribly, and her body seemed to protest her movement less the more she walked about the house… if it could even be called such with no windows and strange forms of electricity.

A bunker perhaps?

If it was, it was the finest shelter she had ever seen.

Everything appeared terribly expensive. The walls were mostly covered in finely crafted wallpapers, each very pleasing and welcoming if not for the foreboding shadows that clung about the edges of every room.

It seemed that no matter the amount of light, the very air itself was stagnant—too still and cloying and utterly silent.

"Erik?" she finally called, although she felt rather stupid while doing it. If she was alone it seemed far more prudent to figure out means of escape, despite her earlier decision not to contemplate such things. It wouldn't hurt to understand the layout, regardless of her resolution toward a more diplomatic mode of release.

She yelped when a seemingly solid bookcase slid to the side, Erik's tall figure filling most of the darkened recess as he walked through the opening.

He blinked at her before looking pointedly away, rigidly divesting himself of a long wool overcoat and hat and placing them neatly on hooks evidently intended for that purpose.

"Where did you go?"

The bookcase closed, apparently of its own accord, and she watched carefully for any sign of tracks or rollers that might suggest its construction.

There weren't any.

"Was there something you require?"

His tone was stiff and formal, and she realized with some discomfort that she hated it.

It shouldn't matter how he spoke to her, other than as a means of self-preservation, and yet his cool demeanor troubled her—and she couldn't quite say why.

"I didn't… I don't like how we left things."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You are allowed to speak to Erik however you wish."

He said it so casually, so perfectly sincerely that she flinched.

For it did not seem all right. No matter what he had done, it was not right to inflict pain upon another simply to soothe some part of herself.

Before she could convince him to talk with her, Boo abandoned his fireside spot in favor of using Erik's pant leg as a scratching post, his front paws barely reaching his knee.

Erik frowned and glanced down before shaking his head with a sigh.

She didn't know what she expected. That he'd scold little Boo for the misuse of his fine suit, or perhaps even shake him away before avoiding her presence once again.

But instead he leaned down and scooped him up. "Come along, little fellow. I was remiss in providing you another feast."

Christine followed as he led the way back to the kitchen, Boo offering encouraging meows along the way.

She watched silently in the doorway as Erik opened a can and arranged a generous helping of food upon a dish and placed Boo and his bowl upon a low stool—who then promptly began eating his meal with vigor.

"Why don't you feed him on the floor?"

Erik gave a grunt as he rinsed the silverware he had used. "Would you like to eat all your meals upon the ground?"

She smiled, despite herself. His tone was almost petulant—defensive.

And for some unexplained reason, it was endearing to her.

"You really saved him, didn't you?"

It wasn't that she hadn't believed him; not exactly. But she had expected him to be colder, more callous about the whole thing. Perhaps he had really stumbled upon a kitten on his way to her house to…. to _watch _her, but she had supposed it was an impulsive decision, such as with the rose. Something that might please her but that he felt nothing for.

But watching him as he stared down at their happy little companion, she could readily see that her assumptions had been wrong.

"I told you that."

She nodded, haltingly. "I guess you did. But I suppose I wasn't really listening."

He glanced at her peculiarly, as though she was some bizarre object that had suddenly appeared in his kitchen. "Then what did you think I said?"

Christine nibbled her lip, contemplating how honest to make her answer. She finally decided that truthfulness was important, especially if they were going to begin communicating more effectively in future.

"I didn't doubt that you'd brought him to me. I just… I didn't think that you'd cared much about him."

He frowned at that. "You do not think highly of me, that much is clear."

She sighed, tugging at her sleeve before whispering, "Give me a reason to."

Erik shook his head. "I have _tried. _But still you are angry with me!"

It was her turn to frown. "What do you mean?"

He turned to her, his eyes filled with pain thinly veiled by vexation. "I tried to make things better for you. You seem to be under the misapprehension that I did these things to trick you, to manipulate you. That I bribed individuals into caring for you. Why would I want you to bestow your affection upon _them? _I acted, my dear Christine, because _I _care for you. You were unappreciated at your place of work, and I intervened. Things improved, no?"

She was too stunned by his outpouring to even nod. But in reality_,_ they had. Her tips were far greater, and when added to the money she received from the trial, for the first time she had breathed a little easier—that everything would no longer fall apart if she was not exceedingly careful.

"Do you not understand?" He sighed deeply and when next he spoke his voice had dropped in decibel and he sounded incredibly worn. "I wanted to help you, to be your friend. You had _seen _me, as unfortunate as that might have been. You knew of what people so readily accused me of, and yet you defended me. I thought…"

She swallowed, nervousness causing a low ache in her belly. "Thought what?"

He looked at her then, truly looked at her. And the magnitude of misery she saw in his colorless eyes took her breath away. "How is a monster to approach an angel without her recoiling away?"

"I don't think you're a monster," she replied with slightly more force than she'd intended.

Perhaps she should, after all he'd done. Maybe there was some faulty wire in her brain that made her want to excuse his actions, but when he looked at her that way—so full of hurt and sorrow and loneliness…

She saw a piece of herself.

A piece that had only recently begun to mend.

And while she had thought it was because she was finally waking up to the world around her, that she was noticing the good, kind people who had always been there, it was with some quiet acknowledgment that she realized that it had also been because of him.

But that didn't change how wrong this entire situation was.

"I don't want to dismiss how… difficult this must have been for you. I've never really tried to approach anybody either."

This felt ridiculous. This wasn't some schoolyard squabble where a boy had pulled her hair because he couldn't find the words to express how he felt. He had knowingly _drugged _her, and brought her to this… place.

"Erik, you have to talk to me. I… if I'm going to stay here, I need to understand how things will work or else I'll go crazy!"

His eyes narrowed. "What part of 'work'?"

She groaned in exasperation. "The light switches for one! Or what the locked rooms are for, or if I'm allowed to get food out of the refrigerator, or where you'll…"

Christine stopped herself before she made a fool of herself and asked where _he _slept. It was clear from the bathroom fixtures—the entire construction of the house really—that everything was perfectly suited to Erik's needs, and if he expected to share a bed with her…

He stared at her. "Why would you question your access to my food stores? Have I not made my opinion on your abysmal eating habits plain?"

She shrugged, suddenly feeling silly. "I just… I wanted to make sure."

Yet from the way she avoided his gaze, the unspoken addition that she wasn't sure of his reaction hung thickly between them.

"You do not trust me." He sighed deeply. "While I know it to be true, I admit that I had expected it to sting somewhat less the more I was faced with it."

Christine didn't have a response.

"Very well, I shall make my views as clear as possible. If you are thirsty, you should drink. If you are hungry, you should eat. If you would like to make use of the facilities, by all means, you should do so. You most certainly do not need to ask my permission for such matters. As for the lights…"

Erik walked past her and she presumed she should follow, so she hurried after him.

He stopped just within the bedroom, facing the wall to the right of the door. "I do not care much for the aesthetics of modernity. While the convenience is of course appreciated, having plastic additions to every wall I find to be… distracting."

He held out his gloved hand, and looked at her expectantly. "If you will permit me, this is much easier to understand if you experience it for yourself."

"Um…" Christine stared at him before hesitantly placing her hand in his.

It was for the sake of having light whenever she wanted, she told herself firmly.

But that didn't stop her heart from beating faster as his hand gripped hers and he eased her pointer finger forward, gently guiding it over a portion of the wallpaper.

It had a slightly raised texture, and as he moved her hand up and down, light emitted and dimmed in turn.

"There are sensors embedded in the wall coverings. I will show you where."

She nodded, and watched somewhat detachedly as Erik carefully stroked his thumb over her knuckles before he released her altogether.

"As for the locked rooms, I have been remiss in opening those that are welcome to you. There is a library that might be of interest, as well as a music room; although the latter would require an escort." He paused, his voice hesitant but firm. "However, I must ask that you remain out of my personal bedroom."

Christine instantly relaxed, incredibly grateful that she would not have to broach that particular subject on her own. "Of course. Privacy is important."

She hadn't meant for her comment to be so pointed, but Erik smiled grimly all the same. "Indeed."

"Now, is there anything else that can make your stay with me more… comfortable?"

Christine glanced about the room, finally able to appreciate its subtle elegance now that it was illuminated properly. She already knew that the bedding was excellent, and the clothes within the wardrobe were far nicer than anything she owned.

But still it troubled her to think of all her things, scant though they might be, wasting away in an apartment without her.

She fidgeted, not certain how to ask, but knowing that she must. "What will happen to all of my things? If I'm not there to pay the rent then my landlord will get rid of everything…"

Erik was quick to reassure her. "If you would like me to continue leasing the apartment, I shall do so. While the neighborhood is appalling and the building itself a disgrace, if it should please you I would do so."

Baby steps.

Rational conversations.

Gentle reminders that she _had _a home and would soon need to return to it.

"I'd like that."

He nodded. "Fine. Anything else?"

She eyed the bed again. Maybe it was foolish, but it was one of her greatest comforts, and now of all times she wanted it near.

"My mother's quilt—the one on the foot of my bed. If it's okay with you, or wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd really like to have it with me."

There must have been something in her tone, a hint of the sad wistfulness she always felt when she thought of her mother, for Erik stood a little taller, his voice sure.

"I would give you anything you wished, Christine. Anything at all."

She smiled thinly, knowing that he was incapable, or perhaps simply unwilling, to give her what she needed most.

Her freedom.

"Not yet, you won't. But maybe someday."

Erik made no reply.

* * *

Sooo... Their first fight! Where do you think Erik went off to? Think he was up to something or just giving her some time alone? I wonder...

My hope is to still have an update for you (I hate disappointing people!) but if things are different this week, know that _nothing _has happened to me (at least, I certainly hope not!), and I have in no way abandoned this story. That's just... yeah, that's never going to happen.

Anyway, do you think Erik should let Christine go? Or are you enjoying them being together, no matter the... uh... dubious circumstances...


	17. Chapter 17

I hope that everyone had a very happy Christmas! I'm afraid my vacation turned into staving off a cold, but I got to still be with family (who were also sick) and we had a merry time regardless.

I'd like to make a quick apology to _Everyonedeserveslove _for not getting a snippet to you. I'm terribly sorry and I'm very grateful for your faithful reviews, and you shall certainly get one this time!

Anyway, enough of that. Onward!

* * *

XVII

When Erik mentioned a library, she had expected a room containing a few bookshelves. Instead, when he led her to a previously locked door and opened it, she was startled by the expanse of bookcases, all neatly lined with leather bound tomes that to her eye belonged in a museum.

Or maybe one of those English manor houses.

Or the castle she had so poorly drawn.

He looked amused as she gasped when the room was fully illuminated. What little wall space was not covered in books was paneled in deep mahogany—lending a rich and masculine feel to the space.

It was beautiful, smelling of worn and much loved books and leather and perhaps a hint of smoke from the fireplace.

He pointed to a space beside the door, as he had done with each of the other rooms they had entered. "The lights are controlled here. If you would prefer a different temperature in the rooms, you may inform me and I shall make the necessary adjustments. I would also ask that you not attempt to build a fire on your own—the flues can be rather temperamental and I'll not have you straining yourself."

Christine laughed softly, walking further into the room to inspect the many spines. "That's probably wise. I've never built a fire and I'd be liable to burn the place down if I tried."

She had meant it as a joke, but he inhaled sharply and his eyes narrowed.

She shook her head, remembering his previous caution about not doing anything _foolish._ What kind of life had he lived where suicide and arson were viable options?

"I didn't mean anything by it, Erik. I would never intentionally burn your house down."

At least, she had great difficulty conjuring a circumstance that would prompt her to do something so drastic—and the entire subject was unpleasant and she preferred not to think about it anymore.

Erik did not seem wholly convinced, as he continued to watch her suspiciously.

She sighed. "I've already agreed to let you handle the fires. You're welcome to take the matches away if it makes you feel better."

Anything to make him stop looking at her like that.

He hummed noncommittally, and she was fairly certain he would do precisely as she had suggested.

Apparently trust needed to grow on both sides—although it seemed a silly and foreign thing not to be trusted in someone's home.

For instance, he had not trusted her within anything sharp in the kitchen, even going so far as to keep all manner of knives upon the highest shelf of the cupboard. It was rather ridiculous to her as his ingenuity dictated that he could simply have produced a lock she was incapable of picking, but she had merely rolled her eyes and watched him as he worked.

There was no denying that there was something graceful in his movements. Whatever genetic—or environmental?—mutation that had caused his face to appear as it did, it obviously compensated with providing him an elegance in movement that would have put any fine lady or prima ballerina to shame.

But somehow she doubted that he found it a worthy exchange.

And the way he handled the knives as he sliced thick pieces of ham off the spiral—it was with well practiced movements. There was a respect he gave to the blade, as he made each delicate cut, and it frightened her.

Either he was a master chef or he used such skills for _other _purposes.

So instead of watching anymore she had poured herself a glass of milk, and tried to be thankful for the simple sandwich and fruit he placed before her in the dining room, and tried not think about his other occupations.

She ate in complete silence, and due to her hunger and lack of desire for conversation, the meal did not last long at all.

And so after she had finished, and he had revealed the location of the dishwasher—one that hid away behind a cupboard door so thoroughly that she wondered how she would find anything without his help—their tour had begun anew.

"You fear the dark?" he finally asked, as he made sure she knew precisely where to touch the wood panel in order to produce light.

The knot she felt in her stomach whenever she thought about it gave a painful twist, and she tried to dismiss his question with a lighthearted lilt to her voice. "Doesn't everyone? Never know what's lurking and ready to pounce."

But Erik shook his head slowly. "Not at all. Light is worthy of fear. It is harsh, it quite literally _burns _the flesh without adequate protection, and it exposes entirely too much."

She stopped her careful memorization of the paneling and turned to him, noticing the downturn of his too-thin lips. "I imagine that would be a very terrifying thing for you, if people have been cruel."

He rolled his eyes. "People are always cruel, even you are aware of that."

Her brow furrowed. "I am?"

She knew they could be unpleasant—at times downright mean. One couldn't look through a newspaper without becoming highly aware of the depravity of the human race, but that didn't mean she had any personal experience of sheer maliciousness.

"_Someone_ killed Poligny. Perhaps when the trial is over, you shall finally know who."

This time she turned around to fully face him. "What is this trial? What do you intend to do?"

He _tsked _and waggled his long finger condescendingly. "You will know everything soon enough. I should hate to spoil the surprise."

Christine had never liked surprises, not even when she was little. She would much prefer to know, to share in the secret with anticipation.

Only, she was fairly certain she would just think of his plan with dread.

But still, she would let him have this secret, as long as he answered more of her questions.

She crossed her arms, and tried to appear as firm as possible. "I have more questions, you know. About this house, about… us."

His eyes brightened at her reference to their apparent relationship, as she suspected they would. "Certainly. Shall we retire to the living room? Then we can be more comfortable for… talking."

She felt a little deceitful as she obediently followed him back into the living room. There was only an _us _insofar as she was his captive and he the abductor. But from the way he would cast a look over his shoulder every few steps and smile at her tentatively, clearly he believed there was something more.

And what made everything so much worse was knowing that if he had waited, had talked to her properly and asked to see her again, things might have progressed as he wanted them to. Well, at the very least she would have pondered the idea.

Erik reached the seating area first, but waited patiently for her to approach before gesturing to her options. "Ladies first," he offered, his eyes never leaving her.

She nodded obligingly before choosing a seat on the sofa, thinking he would be more comfortable in his own chair—then promptly chastised herself yet again for worrying about manners at a time like this.

He did take the chair, leaning forward slightly with that pleased glimmer still in his eyes. "What else would you care to know?"

She cleared her throat awkwardly and briefly wondered why he winced before she posed her next query. Yet when she spoke, it came out more as a statement than a question. "There aren't any windows."

He smiled. "Very observant of you. Yes, my home is quite lacking in that particular feature."

Before she could press further, Boo appeared and sat down at her feet, blinking woefully at his forgotten state before she picked him up. "Oh, come here, my little lump. Not enough attention today?"

He merely purred in response, finally deciding her lap and skirt would make an acceptable nest for the time being.

She couldn't help but smile as she stroked him gently. "Thank you," she murmured to Erik, even though she kept her gaze on the newly contented Boo. "For bringing him to me. I can't… the rest of it was very wrong, but I can't be sorry about this."

Erik was quiet for a long while, but she waited, wanting him to be the one to break the silence.

"You… are most welcome," came his stuttered reply, and she smiled despite herself at how uncomfortable he sounded.

Eventually, however, she decided to take pity on him and she changed the subject. "You said you don't like the light—that it _burns. _Is that a part of your condition?"

She had meant it as a genuine enquiry about his health and the curious result of his deformity, but from the way he immediately stiffened, she realized she had spoken wrongly.

"I'm sorry," she hurried to placate, but stopped short at his derisive laugh.

"I am certain you are," he responded grimly, leaning back in his chair. "Not many have had the courage to question my _condition _as you call it."

The way he looked at her, the searching eyes with cool calculation made her shiver.

She swallowed, and whatever _courage_ as he had so mockingly called it rapidly disappeared—even more so as Boo abandoned her to investigate another part of the house.

"If you don't want to talk about it…"

"Ah yes, but even if I do not, you will still wonder. You will _remember. _For nothing I can do will expunge that I am hideous and wholly unworthy of your smiles."

He said this so sincerely, and all she could do was gape at him.

"That isn't true!"

His head tilted slightly to the side. "Isn't it?"

"No! I…"she stopped, trying to find something that would adequately express her position. Her eyes flickered to the spot on the wall, the little insignificant change in texture that would illuminate the room whenever she had need of it.

And she hoped it would be enough.

"The dark frightens me because I don't know what's there. My imagination runs wild and there are all sorts of spiders and _things _lurking without me knowing. So… I am glad I know what you really look like. Not because I think you're scary," she hastened to explain at his frown, "but because if I lived down here with a man in a mask, with someone I didn't know anything about… I don't know how I would feel anything but fear."

She offered a hesitant smile. "Does that make any sense to you at all?"

"I… suppose," he said thoughtfully, his lips still curled into that same frown. "But there is a difference. What if the light only shows that your darkest imaginings were real? That the monster you fear you are is indeed reflected in the looking glass?"

"Oh Erik," she sighed, not at all certain how she could help him. This went far beyond what mere compassion or understanding could fix—and she felt completely unprepared for what it might require.

He waved his hand dismissively. "To answer your previous enquiry, I was referring to the very nature of sunlight, and how it causes _all _people's skin to burn with prolonged exposure. Light does have a tendency to irritate my eyes, but I'm sure that could also be said of you."

She was grateful for his forthrightness, afraid that if he left her to provide more topics of conversation, it would only lead to the furtherance of his darkening mood. "I suppose. Papa always said bright lights were the bane of pale eyes."

Erik inclined his head in a semblance of a nod. "Then you understand."

Christine didn't feel the need to point out that his eyes were beyond the soft blue of her own coloring. His did not seem to have any pigment at all, except for when she had first awoken here, when they seemed to shine like golden orbs in the darkness…

She shook away the panic that clutched at her whenever she thought of that entire scene.

Had it truly only been that morning?

Except she had no way of knowing how long this day had lasted. She'd had two meals and did not feel tired, but she wondered if that had more to do with her long and drugged sleep than a reliable signifier if days had come and gone.

"You didn't explain about the windows," she reminded him as gently as she could.

He grimaced. "You were being sincere? That you fear something less the more you know of it?"

His tone worried her, but still she believed that to be the case. Her imagination was a vivid thing bred from too many fairy stories when she was young and all too harsh realities when she was older.

"Yes," she confirmed, and prayed that it was true.

"Very well. We are underground. Quite far, actually, with many traps and dark passages on the way to the world above. Which is why," he added almost casually, "it would be unwise for you to attempt any escape. I should so hate to come too late to your rescue."

Christine blanched.

Perhaps it was better not to know after all.

This time when he smiled there was something triumphant in it. "Ah, ah, ah! You said you would prefer to know! You cannot now punish Erik for revealing it to you."

But even with his bravado, the sardonic chastisement, still he watched her carefully—as if bracing himself for her reaction.

Christine took a deep breath and tried unsuccessfully to force down the sudden rush of claustrophobia.

They were underground? He had built his home there? Where the ground could shift and whatever methods to reach the surface were cut off and the oxygen slowly dissipated with every breath you took…

The air felt terribly thin, and she tried to take a breath. "I… can we…" But her lungs were thick and uncooperative, as if something was compressing and tightening until some kind of choked gasping sound was all she could produce.

Gone was any semblance of Erik's scorn as he lurched forward, falling to his knees before her as he gripped her face tightly between his hands. "Christine!" His eyes searched hers frantically before he took a measured breath of his own, this time his voice calm and firm. "Christine, you are perfectly safe. There is no need to panic. Take a normal breath and release it slowly. You are safe, nothing shall harm you here."

She wanted to believe him, but she couldn't get the image of them being trapped here out of her mind. "But… but…"

"Hush," he soothed, his voice shifting yet again. This time it was soft and melodious—or was it merely the rushing in her head that made it seem so?—and she found herself getting lost in his eyes as the voice surrounded her.

"Breathe, Christine. All shall be well. You must believe your Erik. His home is safe and warm, and there is no need to worry. You are suffering from an attack of anxiety. Your heart rate is racing and your breathing is shortened. But this is not necessary, Christine," he reminded her soothingly, his leather clad thumbs gently running over her cheekbones. "For nothing terrible will happen. Not while you are with me."

She didn't know why, but while her mind grew numb her body began to obey. Her pulse began to slow, her breath quieted, and soon she simply felt incredibly tired.

And as her body sagged and her sobs began, Erik was there to catch her, supporting and oh so tentative as he awkwardly patted her back and offered soothing words as her forehead rested against his chest.

"I am very sorry, Christine," he murmured. "I should not have been so callous in how I told you. I understand that the location of my home can be rather disconcerting."

She pulled away, her head feeling muddled as she stared at him. And while she was certainly not tired before, all she wanted now was to climb into that comfortable bed and sleep for ages. "How can you stand it? You're closed in! There could be a cave in at any moment and…" remnants of her panic from before blossomed anew racing and he must have noticed for he shook his head firmly to stop her flow of words.

"You will only upset yourself further if you continue to think of it. And I assure you, the structural integrity of my home is not in question. If… _when _the time comes for us to return above, I promise you, there will be no danger for you. While the walk might seem tedious due to the incline, there is nothing overly unpleasant. _If _I was there to guide you," he added seriously.

She had already determined that plotting her own escape would be fruitless, but knowing where they truly were—now more than ever she realized that the only way she would leave this place was with Erik's blessing.

"Can… can I see?"

He blinked. "See what?"

She took a shuddering breath, glancing briefly landing on the bookcase that had opened earlier and granted him entrance. "Can I see that it's safe?"

His lips thinned and he stood, her neck arching painfully in order to maintain eye contact with him. "You wish to go outside?"

She did. Earnestly and fervently she did. Where there was sky and stars and night air that made her cheeks ache against the cold.

"Please."

He eyed her skeptically. "You do not appear at all well. Now is not the time for such journeys. Besides," he reasoned, "you are liable to see the tunnels and have yet another attack, and I do not think your body could handle such strain twice in one day."

His eyes softened and he seemed truly repentant for a moment. "I did not know that you were claustrophobic. I apologize for my ignorance."

Christine smiled wanly and fiddled with her skirt. "I didn't really realize it myself. I knew I didn't like the dark but…" she shrugged, not wanting to remind herself of the dizzying sensation of feeling the walls close in about her.

Erik frowned. "Perhaps not all the way outside. But maybe…" he sighed. "You will require shoes, unless you would prefer I carry you."

She brightened at that, but tried not to allow her hopes to rise too high. He had said they would not go outside, but the prospect of even leaving the confines of this part of the house… it excited her, probably more than it should.

"I'll be right back!"

She had meant to rush off to the wardrobe in search of shoes, but as soon as she stood, albeit too quickly, she had to grab hold of Erik's arm to steady herself as her head protested her sudden movement.

His frown deepened. "Maybe you should rest."

After she had regained her bearings, she patted his arm gently, and did not miss the way he watched the action—as if it was something foreign and strange.

It made her hurt a little inside to think that a simple gesture could be so unknown to him.

"I will rest, just… after."

It was only as she was tugging on a pair of boots—also in her proper size—that she realized she should probably be nervous about whatever was to come. She had been so certain that _knowing _was preferably to the unknown, yet now as she carefully kept her eyes away from the beautifully papered walls, she recognized that she had been dreadfully mistaken.

But the prospect of going out, no matter if they did not reach the—she breathed deeply—_surface_—still excited her, so she bravely returned to the living room after also donning a wool coat.

Erik was wearing a coat of his own, but he left the hat upon the hook. He looked distinctly uneasy, but at her appearance he sighed and offered his arm.

"At even a hint of distress I am bringing you back."

She wrapped her hand about his arm with only the slightest hesitation. He had offered the crook of his arm to her that morning when she awoke, and at the time she had thought it a curious necessity based on medical need.

But this time it seemed a forgotten remnant of days past, where a gentleman would escort a lady as he wooed her.

She was both touched and wary of it.

Erik did not instruct her on how to open the bookcase, but now that she knew how to operate to the lights, she decided that what had seemed a magic trick must be based on some kind of reasonable system.

One he apparently was not yet willing to share with her.

Christine didn't know what she expected. Perhaps some tunnel of hardly pressed dirt, which they would struggle to scale in an effort to escape the strange home he had built.

But she realized now that she should have known better. Erik with all his fine fabrics and pristine furniture would never stoop so low as to have to crawl through the muck in order to reach aboveground.

Erik leaned toward something and suddenly the pitch blackness of the cavern was filled with pinpoints of light.

She could not determine the source, a glow simply illuminating the vaulted ceilings and water that filled the space. They were standing on a strip of shore, a boat tethered to post.

"What… where are we?"

Erik knelt and picked up a lantern, and she watched with some amusement as he lit it with a flourish, no sign of a match or lighter that she could see.

There was something charming about his careful use of technologies. He preferred it hidden. A useful thing, but not something to be flaunted. The lantern was filled with kerosene that she heard gently sloshing as Erik lifted it high, and she took in the heavy stones and softly lapping waters with wonder.

"As you can see, things are well situated here. We are hardly buried alive."

Christine swallowed, pushing down the mental image he created. "I can see that."

She turned and looked at the wall behind them, the one that she knew held warm fires and a kitten who likely wondered where his human friends had disappeared to.

But if she hadn't known, been absolutely certain that they had come from there, she could have stared at the stones for ages and never found the entrance.

And recognition settled over her, unexpected and chilling.

"We're underneath the opera house, aren't we? Where they found you before."

And Erik's smirk seemed all the more disturbing cast in shadows from the lanterns.

"Very good, Christine. We are indeed. Only this time," he noted, his eyes shining eerily, the golden glow making her take an involuntary step backward. "We are going to keep to the part they did not violate with their trespassing. No one will interrupt us here. Not unless Erik allows it."

And as Christine looked over the expanse of water and stone, she fully believed him.

* * *

Sooo… it appears our lovely Christine can't keep it together _all _the time. I don't know about all of you, but I do not do very well in enclosed spaces, and I'd imagine being informed that you're in a hole in the ground… with no idea when you'll get to go above again in future… yeeaaahh… But how do you think Erik handled it? Should he have made the attempt to take her to the above, or was giving her a little tour sufficient?


	18. Chapter 18

Well, we're in a new year and whooo is starting out swimmingly by forgetting today was a posting day? It's meeee! So yup. Doing really well. But the good news is, this is one of the longest chapters thus far! That's something at least, right?

I hope all of you had a safe and wonderful New Year (I get funny looks when I explain how quiet mine tend to be. Not a big partier over here).

Anyway, onward!

* * *

XVIII

Sleep came easily that night.

Christine supposed one of the benefits of having an underground home was the absolute silence—the uninterrupted peace that allowed one to slumber endlessly, especially when there were no responsibilities or pressing engagements that made her mind overrule her body's exhaustion.

She had insisted that Erik show her how to utilize the bedside lamps, but after all appendages were tucked safely away, Boo cuddled up against her leg, she turned off the light and the entire room was engulfed in inky blackness.

She would have thought that nightmares would have plagued her—of confined spaces and too-still air, or perhaps shadowed kidnappers who dragged her away from her home—there was nothing but deep and restful sleep, aided by a bed that had no right being so comfortable.

And when she finally awoke, no notion as to what time it was beyond the low ache in her belly that insisted she was hungry, she found the tiny groove in the lamp that allowed it to function.

Only to find that her mother's quilt was carefully draped over her.

She fingered it gently, her brow furrowed. She knew she had asked for it, that Erik had seemed adamant that he wanted her to be comfortable here, but it meant that he had yet again gone to her apartment.

It meant that he had also been in her room while she slept.

Had he lingered? Had he watched her as she was so very vulnerable, completely ignorant to his continued presence?

She swallowed, grimacing at the thick, heavy feeling in her mouth as she made her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Erik had made a great show the night before of opening a fresh toothbrush before showing her precisely where it would be kept for only her use.

"Privacy," he had murmured as he watched her closely, almost as if waiting for her pronounced approval.

She had laughed incredulously before taking the proffered brush and waiting for him to vacate the room before beginning her nighttime ablutions, all the while wondering at the dichotomy of her captor. His actions were so vicious, so thoroughly _wrong, _yet often he approached her with childlike apprehension.

It made it terribly difficult to hate him.

Her stomach gave another gurgle of protest, and she remembered how little she'd eaten the night before. After he had revealed the expanse of his underground domain, she had meekly followed him back indoors. And while he had tried to ply her with food, all she had desired was to curl up in the bed and allow her mind to rest—to not think anymore of the strangeness of her circumstances or of the man who confused her so completely.

She eyed the tub once more, knowing she would need to bathe properly today, but she did not think she could wait to eat long enough to do so.

Did she dress? She had never liked putting on fresh clothes without first having showered, and it was probably unwise to go out in anything less than a full armament of daywear.

But as she left the bathroom and glanced at the wardrobe, her stomach clutching painfully as it reminded her yet again of its pitifully empty state, she decided that her need for food and tea was most pressing.

So she grabbed her mother's quilt and wrapped it about herself, determined to make her way to the kitchen and retreat back to the bedroom before she gathered her courage enough to bathe and dress.

But her desire for a quick trip to the kitchen was thwarted when Erik's voice greeted her as she shuffled from the bedroom. "Have you ever been to Africa?"

She blinked at him, turning to him as he sat comfortably in his chair, the book that she had read without his permission open across his lap.

"What?"

He closed it with a low _thump._ "To Africa. Have you ever travelled there?"

Her brow furrowed, and she pulled the quilt about her a little more firmly. "No. My parents came here before I was born and we never travelled outside the country. Why?" Her mouth grew dry as she realized he might be suggesting they relocate there. "I've never wanted to go to Africa either…"

He waved away her denial. "It is no matter. I only thought it might explain the extraordinary amount of hours you spend sleeping if you were infected with a sleeping sickness."

Christine flushed, not at all used to her sleeping habits being scrutinized. "Well, I'm sorry," she answered primly, "but I never asked you to wait for me to get up. If you had something you needed to do, then you should have done it."

Erik gave an odd grin, and she adjusted the quilt again uncomfortably. "I am gratified to receive your permission, for I have indeed accomplished many things while you slumbered."

She stared at him, not certain she wanted to puzzle out what he might have done now. So instead she glanced down at her much-loved covering, before mustering a quiet, "Thank you. For bringing me her quilt."

He inclined his head slightly, the smirk falling from his lips. "Of course. I want you to have everything you need to be comfortable here. If there is something more you require, then you must inform me."

She wanted to remind him that her freedom would be greatly appreciated, but already she was coming to realize that such blatant reminders of her unwillingness to be here did not result in anything positive from him.

So instead she wandered down the hallway, intent on uncovering tea things and maybe some sourdough bread for toast.

And butter.

And jam.

Or maybe peanut butter instead?

"Shall I take your silence to indicate you are angry, or do you merely prefer not to speak in the mornings?"

Christine hadn't expected him to follow her, but if he had been waiting for her to awaken—something that made her distinctly uncomfortable—it likely meant he wanted her company.

She frowned and continued to look through his cupboards. "Never really had anyone to talk to before."

Not for a long while at least.

He hummed at that and she glanced behind her and noted the way he leaned casually against the doorframe, watching her carefully.

"Is there something I may help you locate?"

"A tea kettle," came her mumbled, her head buried in the dark recess of a cupboard.

Only then to feel perfectly ridiculous as he moved closer to the stove and grabbed a sleek black kettle from a burner and held it down for her inspection. "Will this one be adequate?"

"Oh."

There was something soft about his eyes as he looked at her, and none of the harsh mockery she might have expected from him. "I have a fondness for tea myself and it seemed a terrible waste of energy to constantly be moving it from its rightful place on the stove for the sake of storing it out of sight."

She stood, adjusting the quilt that had fallen slightly to one side. "That makes sense. I guess I didn't notice it."

He smiled ever so slightly. "Shall I make you a cup?"

She cleared her throat, briefly wondering if she should decline in case he put something funny in it. But then she reasoned, if he had wanted to drug her again, it would likely happen regardless of whether or not she kept all her foodstuffs carefully away from him.

"Yes, please," she finally answered.

"And what did you desire to go with it? An omelet perhaps?"

While that did sound appealing, she wanted the immediacy of toast more than something more elegant.

"Do you have a toaster?"

He frowned at her and she thought he would argue, but eventually moved forward and touched a part of what appeared to be a perfectly normal backsplash and a toaster appeared from the very wall.

"Not a very nutritious breakfast, Christine."

She shrugged. "You're the one that bought all the sugary cereal," she reminded him before asking directions to the bread and proper accouterments, which he revealed with a weary sigh.

Christine watched her toast carefully, the unfamiliar device making her nervous that if she left it alone for any prolonged period, she'd set the bread aflame. She felt Erik's stare, which she resolutely ignored, deciding that she would face all of her uncertainty and rumpled emotions once breakfast was finished.

To her surprise when the water boiled, Erik hesitated, and he looked almost ashamed. "I am afraid that my… watchfulness did not produce an adequate example of your preferences for tea. If you would not mind providing some direction…"

Some of the heavy weight she had felt with the knowledge of all he had seen and witnessed seemed to lift, and she was able to produce a perfectly genuine smile. "Black tea, for starters, then a heaping teaspoon of brown sugar. And cream. But I'll have to tell you when to stop because the color has to be just right."

He obeyed with precise actions, constantly glancing toward her to ensure that he was doing it all to her exacting specification.

And despite everything, she found it rather sweet.

At which point she began to wonder if there was something fundamentally wrong with her that she could find _anything _sweet about her kidnapper.

After hers was properly brewed, sweetened, and creamed, Erik poured his own cup as she liberally spread peanut butter over her piece of toast followed by a thin layer of blackberry preserves.

Not her blueberry, but as she licked an errant smudge off her finger, quite good in its own right.

When next she glanced at Erik he hurriedly returned his gaze to his own cup of tea, and for some unknown reason she blushed.

"I'm… I'll be in the dining room."

He nodded, gesturing over his cup. "I shall join you in a moment."

It would have to be a quick moment, she decided. Because the moment she sat down and took a bite of her toast, she realized just how ravenous she was, and ate with enthusiasm. The tea however was still delightfully hot, and that at least required her to sip slowly and savor Erik's excellent choice in tea leaves.

She did not hear him come in, and she wasn't sure if that was a testament to his utterly silent movements or the crunchiness of her toast—perhaps a bit of both.

They sat in silence, each staring into their cups and taking slow and deliberate sips.

She hadn't expected Erik to be the one to broach conversation, usually it being her that could no longer stand the uncomfortable stillness as she began to prattle, so she knew something must be especially important.

"I had hoped… that is to say, if you amendable to the idea, it was my desire that we should venture to the music room today."

She stared at him. "The music room."

He nodded. "It is on the other side of the lake, you see. And while it had been _tainted _when all manner of miscreant searched for their supposed _evidence, _I can assure you that my traps have been reset and it has been cleaned thoroughly, so it should be all right."

She hesitated, not sure how to explain to him that it was not so much a question of where the room might be, but a lack of any wish to allow him to know that part of herself.

Singing, the act and the instruction, was deeply personal to her, and it seemed far too intimate at thing to share with a man who had betrayed her trust so completely.

"I don't know about that," she started, but Erik interrupted quickly.

"The boat is quite safe, I assure you. You will not get the least bit wet."

She was going to argue—to explain herself fully so there would be no doubt in his mind that she was unwilling to participate in anything musical with him.

But he was looking at her so earnestly, an all-encompassing hopefulness in his eyes, that she could not seem to force the words from her disobliging throat. "We could… at least look at the room," she relented, mentally chastising herself for being so cowardly.

But then he smiled at her, a true smile born of excitement and anticipation, and some secret part of her loved that expression and wanted to do anything she could to make it appear again in future.

"I'll have to change first though, and I'll need a bath so long as you…"

His smile faded but not entirely, and she felt stupid for even questioning him. But of course he pressed and she could not take it back now. "If I what?"

She smiled at him ruefully, hoping to temper the insult she was certain he would take from her need for reassurance. "If you promise not to intrude. You said that locks wouldn't do any good," she hurried to explain as he gaped at her, "and I just… would feel better if you promised to leave me be."

He groaned softly and any last remnant of his previous exuberance completely dissipated. "I never wanted you to feel that I… Erik… I… I would never take advantage of you, Christine. You have my word as a gentleman." He spoke so sincerely, as if the very notion of violating her privacy so crudely repulsed him, that she couldn't help but believe him.

"Thank you," she replied before taking her last sip of tea and rising from the table. "I'll be as quick as I can."

He nodded, now looking miserable and unhappy as he watched her leave the room. And against her better judgment, she found herself wondering if it would be so terrible to sing just _one _song for him, if only to stop him appearing so forlorn.

-X-

Christine had never had a bath like that. It took quite a bit of investigation to coax the taps into cooperation, but once successful she admired the way the water poured like a waterfall from the long wall beside the tub. The water was deliciously hot and regardless of her assurance to Erik that she would hurry, as soon as her body submerged in the soothing bath, she felt tense muscles loosen and her mind finally quiet as she luxuriated.

But once she remembered how worried he had been that she would harm herself, she hurried to wash her hair and scrub her skin, wanting to give him no cause for alarm. For while she wanted to believe he would keep his word, it was best not to tempt his rasher side into action. For that reason, she forced herself to vacate the warmth of the bath, stepping out into the cool air of the room and noticing with bemusement just how pink her skin had gotten.

There were all manner of feminine products lining the cupboard under the sink, ranging from lotions to cleansers to more _personal _items that made her cheeks burn as she pictured Erik buying them for her.

Christine quickly plaited her hair, and carefully wrapped in a towel, she returned to the bedroom in search of clothes. She had found a hamper in the bathroom which she had hesitantly placed the previous day's underthings, and she dearly hoped Erik would give her access to the washing machine so she could do her own laundry. The thought of him doing it was too mortifying for words.

She dressed warmly, their sojourn into the tunnels yesterday a confirmation that away from Erik's fireplaces the air was cold and damp. She searched for any type of hat to cover her wet hair, but eventually gave up, knowing she had taken too long already.

Erik was wearing his coat when she at least reentered the living room. He stood before the fireplace, staring into the flames, giving no indication that he had noticed her entrance.

Boo had taken up residence on the sofa, a black lump of limbs and ears as he positioned himself just _so _against the armrest.

"Are you sufficiently prepared?" he asked abruptly, causing her to jump at the unexpected sound.

"Yes," she answered, but instead of following him toward the bookcase, she walked quickly to the sofa and kissed Boo softly on the head. "Send out a search if I don't come back," she whispered.

He merely blinked languidly in reply.

"Perhaps I was mistaken in my jealousies. It seems he was my competition for your affection all along."

Christine glanced toward Erik, trying to determine if he was serious or not.

From the way his eyes were narrowed as he regarded the two of them, he was.

He had mentioned that his hasty abduction had stemmed from her conversation and prospective date with Joe, but to have him speak of it so plainly—for there to be no doubt that all of this horrid business was because he was _jealous…_

It only confirmed that while she felt a great deal for Erik, he was not a stable man. Well adjusted people did not behave like this because the girl they liked talked to another man.

And no matter how much his smiles made her heart flutter, there was no ignoring that.

She walked forward determinedly, coming as close to him as she dared. "Don't you dare. I've seen what you did the last time you felt threatened, and I will _not _let you do anything to Boo!"

And she ignored his chastened apology and his proffered arm, as well as his crestfallen sigh.

She followed him out into the darkness, waiting patiently for him to turn on the lights to the lake. Her annoyance was drowning out any fear she might have felt at the inky blackness surrounding her, but she was still surprised when Erik only lit the lantern and walked toward the boat.

"Where are the rest of the lights?" she questioned, still remaining by the doorway.

He glanced back at her, and sighed again. "Should we need to make a _hasty _retreat, I would prefer no one realize there is a more to my home than what they were already led to."

She had forgotten about the man who had called Erik friend. She had been so upset with him at the time—to have been willing to testify against a man while also claiming to care for him.

But now she was beginning to appreciate that maybe there was something more to his reasoning, now that she was well aware of what Erik was truly capable.

"Are you going to continue to stare or shall we continue our journey?"

She blinked, frowning at his tone. "You don't need to be so snippy," she responded crossly.

He sighed again and closed his eyes, and she rather thought he was trying to control his temper. For then he opened them and with as much sincerity as he could imbue, he tried his apology again. "I am not a patient man, Christine, especially not when I am… uncomfortable."

She laughed at that, somewhat incredulously. "Uncomfortable? As you have made me?"

He huffed out a tired breath and his shoulder slumped. "Frightened then. When Erik is… when I am frightened."

It seemed a very great thing for him to admit, the words coming out in stilted measure. "What were you frightened of?" she enquired gently, although she was fairly certain she already knew the answer.

But somehow she needed to have her suspicions confirmed.

He looked at her helplessly. "Of losing you before I even had a chance to _try._"

And how could she argue with that?

This time when he held out his hand to help her into the boat, she complied.

They rode in silence, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water around the paddle as Erik expertly steered them across the glassy water. And as she stared into the temperate liquid, its water thick and velvety as the paddle ever so smoothly ventured into its depths, she reached out her hand to touch it…

Only for Erik to pull it back firmly.

"One mustn't' wake the siren, Christine."

She blinked at him, not at all certain what he spoke of, but she made no attempt to touch the water again.

Were there things lurking in the depths?

She decided that if ever he left her alone out here she would throw a stone into the middle, and maybe then she would get a better feel for just how deep it truly was.

The last thing she needed was yet another thing to fear.

Eventually they came to the other side of the shore and Erik leapt from the craft gracefully before tying it quickly to a similar post. He held out his hand once more and she took it gratefully, hoping that she could be as lithe as he as she vacated the vessel.

Only to have her foot catch the lip of the boat.

And if Erik had not been so quick to steady her, she would have tumbled headfirst into the lake.

She stumbled back from the edge of the water, laughter born from mortification tumbling from her lips. "Why did you have to build your music room so far?"

Erik grunted before leaning forward and grasping the lantern from its hook on the bow of the boat.

"The acoustics demanded it. There was no room to fashion the rest of my home so I was forced to relocate the rest of it further inward." He eyed her closely. "Perhaps with time you will become more used to disembarkment."

She smiled grimly, as she usually did when he referenced the duration of her stay with him. "Perhaps."

Erik walked toward the stone wall, that at his touch suddenly wasn't as solid at it had first appeared. He entered through the opening and turned on the lights before lighting a few candles as well as the fireplace.

It was not what she expected.

The first thing to draw her eye was the impressive pipe organ that dominated the right side of the room. She had seen such things in churches, but to have one in a personal music room…

She was undeniably impressed.

"Did you build it?" she asked, walking closer to inspect the gleaming pipes and ivory keys.

He glanced behind him, stooped as he was as he coaxed a flame from the kindling to the larger pieces of wood. "Yes," he answered simply.

She didn't dare touch it, so she forced temptation away by looking at the rest of the room. There was another plush chair by the fire, and books and papers littered the space in a direct contrast from the neat and orderly way he kept the rest of his home.

Christine took a step nearer to one of the piles.

Compositions.

Seemingly hundreds of them.

She didn't try to read them, as surely they were too personal a thing. And if she was trying to teach him about the importance of privacy, invading his own would not serve as a helpful example.

Once the fire seemed satisfied to lick at the larger logs without Erik's continued assistance, he rose and turned toward her. "This is a very important room, Christine. Where something _magical _takes place. And I had hoped… that you would share in it with me."

There was an intensity in his eyes, the way they shone in the light of the fire, that sent a pang of nervousness through her—not unlike how he spoke of how alone they were just yesterday.

She swallowed, not at all certain how to respond.

And then she saw it.

It was sitting on the far side of the room, polished and beautiful.

A violin.

And a lump formed in her throat, her mind flooding with memories of her papa.

"I… I can't," she choked out.

Erik looked startled. "Cannot?" His eyes darkened. "Or _will _not?"

She swallowed thickly, trying to find the right words to explain. "Both I guess. I just…" she lightly touched the sheet music beside her, the black ink so crisp and clean against the cream parchment. "This is so personal to me. To be shared with… someone I trust. Someone I… love," she finished lamely.

_Her papa, _she wanted to add, but couldn't seem to force out the words.

Not when he was staring at her like that.

So full of hurt and resignation. "I see," he murmured.

And what made things worse was that she didn't know how to fix it—because she did not trust him, and she most certainly didn't love him.

How could you force such feelings to appear, even if you willed them into being?

But then suddenly, his vulnerability was gone.

He stood straighter, his expression calmed, and somehow that was even worse.

"Well then, perhaps we shall have to venture farther today than I thought."

She looked at him nervously. "Venture? Venture where? I thought we were coming here."

He grinned at her. "We were, but apparently now is not the time for music. Now is the time for you to see that Erik is worthy of your trust. And perhaps, in time, your love."

Dread filled her. "What do you mean?"

He went to the far wall and suddenly a doorway appeared. "We are going above, Christine. To learn the truth."

And suddenly the prospect of leaving the underground terrified her.

* * *

Sooo… Christine's starting to settle in with Erik, they've broached his music room (_tainted _by police! Perish the thought!), and it looks like next chapter we're going to find out what Erik meant by his trial…

Any last minute guesses? I'd love to hear your theories!


	19. Chapter 19

I'm sure for you guys it's been a long wait, but for me it feels like I _just _posted! Ah well, to each their own.

Not much to say other than… for some of you, you'll get a kick out of Erik and his oh so infallible logic. And for others, I'm sure this will be another nail in his Creepy coffin. Either way, I hope you enjoy!

Onward!

* * *

XIX

"Erik, _please _tell me where we're going!"

He _tsked _at her, although he did not turn back to look as he carefully maneuvered them through the underground tunnels. "I should think you would be happy to be going above, Christine. You expressed so much enthusiasm yesterday!" His words were confirmed by the definite incline as they trudged along the dark and foreboding passages, but that gave her no comfort.

If they were simply going above, he would have reassured her. He would have reminded her that he wanted her to be comfortable here as he allowed her to walk in the fresh air, if only for a little while.

But instead he was humming a strange little tune, every step they took seeming to make his mood darken into a jubilant sort of derangement.

And she realized how much she had come to depend on his gentle, caring nature as he offered her things to make her happy.

For this man alarmed her with his unpredictability. Yet even with her trepidation she dared not release her hold on his arm in case she accidently fell behind and he left her, alone in the darkness, while he saw to whatever business excited him so.

She shuddered.

Could there be anything worse?

She squeaked and huddled a little closer to him as the dim light of the lantern illuminated a _large _and terrible looking spider as it scuttled toward a crack in the stone.

Definitely nothing worse.

"You wouldn't leave me down here, would you?" she asked. It was a question birthed of self-pity and fear, but one at the moment she genuinely wished to know the answer to. "If I fell behind?"

He halted abruptly and turned to her, some of the manic light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

Perhaps what she truly wanted to know was if he was as dangerous in this moment as he seemed. She had seen flickers of his genuine care for her, but now…

"Would you leave me here?" she repeated. "If I stumbled and fell would you just keep going until you reached… wherever it is we're going?"

He stared at her, his expression entirely blank. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

And then he kept walking, this time a little slower, and every so often he would glance down at her to ensure she was still with him.

But something about his curt dismissal of her apprehension soothed her, as if it truly had never occurred to him to leave her alone in the darkness.

She understood now why he had told her the day before that it was unwise to make the journey when she was so exhausted. Even now, with a full night's rest and a full stomach, by the time they finally emerged—into a dressing room?—she was tired. Erik however did not seem in the least bit winded, and with quick movements he extinguished the lantern and stored it within the stone tunnels before sealing the door once more.

Somehow she doubted he would explain that particular mechanism to her.

She drifted away from him, the shuttered windows allowing enough light that she could easily make out the lush carpets, the intricately carved wardrobe, as well as the gilded mirror covered in a messy array of makeup, powders, and hair pins.

"Does it impress you?" Erik asked. She pulled her hand away from an errant ribbon, and noted the way he watched her, his eyes careful but also somewhat… pleased?

"It's a beautiful room," she relented. "Although it feels odd being in it when it's someone else's."

He hummed noncommittally. "That could easily be rectified."

She smiled, knowing that he was perfectly serious. "I'd prefer that it wasn't."

Erik shrugged. "Very well. I shall respect your wishes for the moment."

Christine sighed, for that was precisely the problem. He clearly thought that given time and patience, he could wear her down to his way of thinking.

And a part of her greatly feared that he would be proven correct.

"Now, if you've satisfied your curiosity about the room that is not yet to be yours, shall we continue?"

She hesitated, still not at all certain she wanted to have any part of whatever he had planned. He had calmed significantly and that was an encouragement but still…

Yet he opened the door all the same and waited, and she supposed there really was no great point in delaying.

It would only make her more nervous.

And a whisper of idea flittered across her mind that she was no longer buried underground… that there were doors and windows and means of escape…

She took a deep breath and refused to think about that. Erik seemed capable of reading her quite thoroughly, and she could only imagine how angry he would be if she tried to bolt. And not for a moment did she believe he would not track her down and drag her back, this time with much less hospitable a demeanor.

So she followed placidly enough, trying not to lose herself as she took in the grandeur of the theatre itself. The carpets themselves were thick dark, the moldings heavy and intricate and painted with expert quality. The sconces were a polished gold, and she dearly wished she could see it all lit and alive, thrums of people milling about the open areas as she imagined the performers scurrying about backstage.

"Where are all the people?" she asked, her voice echoing slightly as they walked through a hallway with a ceiling so tall she had to crane her neck to appreciate it properly.

Erik gave an odd sort of titter, his voice slightly mocking. "Haven't you heard? One of the managers was _murdered _and an unfortunate accident led to the discovery of asbestos in the ceilings. It will take quite some time to set everything to rights."

Christine's lips thinned, not at all appreciating his tone.

"If that was true, then _we _would be in danger as well. Tell me Erik, have you now exposed me to cancer?"

He rolled his eyes and kept walking. "I believe that would fall under the heading of _harm, _which I have sworn will not befall you. My point is, we are quite alone here and will continue to be so until I wish to make it otherwise."

She sighed. "Of course."

They carried on in silence, until they reached the main auditorium, and Christine's irritation temporarily was overridden by the magnitude of the space. Vaulted ceilings, private boxes, and perfectly aligned rows with plush seats that all faced one of the grandest stages she had ever seen.

Erik led her forward, towards the front row and up onto the stage, and she could not help but stop and admire the heavy velvet curtain that would separate the audience from the actors. The fringe alone looked obscenely expensive, and the yards and yards of luxurious velvet must have cost a tremendous fortune.

It made Erik's requested salary appear laughable.

"If you're trying to convince me to sing by bringing me here, the answer is still no. Although I admit, this is quite the manipulation."

Erik chuckled and moved to the side of the stage, fiddling with some complicated set of levers. "I will be certain to keep that in mind. But I am afraid that is not why we are here." He smiled at her, a wicked and troubling thing, before commenting, "You may wish to take a step to the left."

She obeyed warily, and then with a flick of his wrist the floor began to move and the stage filled with light.

And with another blink, three bound figures appeared before her.

They were all seated, their hands and feet tied to armchairs, and in her shocked state Christine rather thought they appeared ready for some kind of sadistic dinner party. All three were gagged, a piece of cloth firmly pressed between their lips and fastened behind their heads.

All three gurgled and tried to speak, and as Christine tried to make sense of it all, she found herself staring not at the other captives, but at Erik.

Who in turn watched her with equal care.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice low and surprisingly stable.

His head tilted slightly to the side. "You do not recognize them?"

She finally tore her gaze away from him, his placid manner turning her stomach, before looking at the three people more closely.

Two men, one darker and younger than the first, and a woman…

And with startling clarity, she realized that they were some of the witnesses.

"You… you…"

He gave a little shrug, almost helplessly—as if he had no other choice than to have committed yet another abduction.

She didn't know why she was surprised. Had she thought herself so very special that only she would have been ensnared by him? "I promised you another trial. One in which you would learn what actually occurred that fateful day."

He walked forward, looking at each of his captives carefully as they struggled or cried, depending on their wont.

Except the second man, the one seated in the middle, had quieted, his dark eyes narrowed as he glared at Erik, his form entirely still.

"Now," Erik began, his voice congenial. "I would like to thank all of you for joining me here today. And of course, special thanks _must _be given to Mr. Debienne for the use of his illustrious theatre as the cornerstone for our little production. A fitting spot to learn of truths, wouldn't you say?" He leaned forward ever so slightly in the direction of Mr. Nadir, and Christine did not miss the contentious curl of his lips.

And despite everything, she was left with the very real impression that Erik had been hurt by this man.

And badly.

She had to admit that some not-so-hidden part of herself longed to know what really happened last April—how Mr. Poligny had died, if something more salacious had occurred between Mr. Debienne and the victim's wife.

And what had driven a supposed friend to Erik—likely the only one he had—to testify against him.

But it had been more than that, hadn't it? He had gone to the police about him—_shown _them where he lived.

Christine took another step backward, the other part of her wanting to take this opportunity to flee and never return. Not when this was all so confusing.

But Erik's eyes suddenly locked on hers and she froze, unable to convince any of her muscles to cooperate. His gaze darkened. "Leaving so soon?"

He walked back toward the same set of levers and pulled another one, another chair rising from the depths of the stage. Only this time additional panels rose, created a strange sort of dais.

As if it was presiding over the other chairs.

She swallowed.

Erik came forward again, holding his hand out. She hesitated, truly not wanting to touch him when the reminder of his ambiguous sense of morality was so blatantly displayed before her, but she was nervous and unsure, and with a sense of numbness she took it and allowed him to lead her up to her seat.

She sat down obediently enough, but when he turned to leave she grasped his hand more firmly. "Erik, you need to let them go," she stated firmly, proud that her voice didn't quaver.

Much.

He smiled, and while she expected it to be twisted and cruel, there was softness that surprised her as he tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear before he moved to extract his hand from her tight grip. "And I shall, Christine," he promised, his voice soft so only she could hear. "But first they must learn to tell the truth."

She held on more resolutely. "You will not hurt them." It was a statement, and not a question. "Because if you do, so help me Erik…"

Her lips thinned as he simply looked amused. "You shall what?"

She took a deep breath and released her hold on him. "I shall know how you truly keep your prisoners. And somehow I don't think you want to leave me with that particular impression. Not when I am also one of them."

This time he frowned. "You are not…" she looked at him pointedly and he sighed. "No, I suppose not."

"Then you will not hurt them? Just as you would not hurt me?"

He walked down the steps, and yet when he spoke his voice was still a soft tickle at her ear. "You may not wish for me to make such a vow when you know what they have to confess."

He stood slightly to the side, affording her a perfect view of both him and the faces of the three witnesses. She finally recognized Ms. Poligny as the third victim, although she looked very different from her persona in court. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, her clothes disheveled. Everything about her was a direct contrast from the pristine woman who had appeared in the courtroom all those weeks ago.

"You are all likely wondering why you are here," Erik began again, his voice once more a genial timbre. Apparently Mr. Debienne was tired of his struggles for he too sagged against his bonds and merely stared at Erik—his expression more of fear than the simmering anger of the man beside him.

"Well, it seems to _me _that the farce of a trial that I was subjected to had little bearing on the actual demise of our dear Poligny. And, as it so happens," he glanced toward Christine, and she met his gaze steadily, "my character has come into question and I would like the matter to be settled as neatly as possible. _Clearly _that means not trusting that fool Sorelli to handle the prosecution."

Christine couldn't help but agree, although she was absolutely certain that Erik's way of dealing with things was not the answer to the prosecutor's incompetence.

"So, I'm afraid that leaves matters in my hands." He stalked forward and stood directly in front of Ms. Poligny before leaning in close, his words tempered into a purr even though readily audible to the theatre's occupants. "In _that's _hands," he murmured, reminding her of the dreadful way she had referred to him during the trial.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head frantically.

He stood back, and from his sardonic tone Christine could easily picture the look he was giving her. "No? Well, you do not seem in a position to argue, no matter how you might like to."

Erik glanced back at Christine and waved his hand in a grand gesture of introduction. "Judge Albright could not be with us this evening, so Christine will be acting as our overseer of law and justice. Perhaps you remember her from the jury?" he gave the members of his mock court time to offer a muffled reply, but all of them merely glanced at her in varying measure of confusion and fear. "No?" He sighed. "It seems there is further evidence that the world is blind in regard to you, my dear. I could hardly keep my eyes off you."

"Why couldn't the judge be with us?" Christine asked, and even to her own ears it sounded rather petulant. If he had managed to abduct three individuals—four, counting herself and five if she added Boo to her estimate—then why not add another to make things more official?

He sent her an exasperated look. "I would have thought I'd caused him enough mischief during the trial. But if you'd prefer…"

Her brow furrowed. He had been completely silent in court, causing not a single disruption except for the occasional outburst that was due to someone's _reaction _to him rather than his actual person.

"What do you mean? What did you do to the judge?"

Erik sighed and turned to her fully. "Christine, this is hardly an appropriate time to discuss such matters. We are in the middle of a trial and I highly doubt our three defendants are interested."

The sound of gagged denials drew his attention once more, and he looked at all of them with barely contained mockery. "No? You do not think you have done anything to warrant being called so? I suppose that _is _for our judge to decide."

He bowed slightly in her direction. "Where would you like to begin, my dear? That fateful night in April? Even further back? How about to the Poligny's wedding day?"

Christine took a steadying breath. She wanted no part of this. She wanted to believe that he would not harm them, but he had not promised, and if he did not intend to give them to the authorities…

What other recourse was there?

So instead she braced herself for his outrage when she finally murmured, "I'd like to know what you did to Joe."

Every muscle in his body froze as his eyes darkened dangerously. "Perhaps you would like to make a different inquiry," he suggested, his tone brokering no refusal.

But this was good, or so she reassured herself. It was better that he focus on her, that he be preoccupied with her rather than making the witnesses incriminate themselves in order for him to feel justified in hurting them.

And if he should in turn hurt her…

Then she needed to know.

Because she would _not_ subject herself to a man who was cruel and hurtful. She would steal herself against any of his sweetness, would refuse any proffered apology, if for any moment he raised a hand against her.

She might be lonely, desperately so, but she had more respect for herself than that.

And so determined she began again. "No, I don't think so. You've kidnapped me, you're holding those three prisoners. I'd like to know what you do to a man that finally bothered to notice me."

His lips thinned and he stalked forward. And for all her temporary bravery, she flinched as he came close and breathed into her ear the terrible thing he had done.

"I had him transferred."

She blinked.

"You… you what?" she asked breathlessly.

Both of his hands were on the arms of her chair, forming a veritable cage about her as he moved back slightly so he could look at her. "Officer Joe Ryan," he answered, his tone biting, "breached the code of ethics with a juror by suggesting romantic entanglements during a trial. His superiors believed it prudent to transfer him to another district pending a full investigation into his conduct."

She swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling very dry. "That's all?"

He smiled, although there was nothing joyful in the action. He seemed both sad and hurt by her question, and once again she felt that horrible conflict that made being angry with him so exceptionally difficult.

"That is all, Christine." He peered at her curiously. "Did you think I'd killed him?" His voice was gentle, any irritation he might have felt at her apparent mistrust of him carefully hidden away.

"Y-yes," she stammered, feeling immediately guilty for it once she knew how mild his recompense had actually been. She had even wondered the ethics of Joe's asking, and as long as Erik hadn't falsified any of what transpired and still they thought it best to transfer him…

She supposed Erik's actions hadn't been so wholly bad, even if his motive had been selfish and not based on ensuring the justice system was as honorable as possible.

Erik looked genuinely confused. "I would not begrudge him for noticing Christine; he obviously has excellent taste. That being so, why would I punish him so harshly simply for noticing the treasure that was in his midst?"

He _tsked _at her again, and given how close he was to her, she could easily determine that his teasing stemmed from bruised feelings and not actual amusement. "However, it is gratifying to have it confirmed that I have orchestrated this trial for a purpose, as you do seem quite ready to think the worst of me." He sighed, a low and pained sound that made some part of her hurt in sympathy. "You defended me, you said so yourself. And yet now you think me a monster."

He stood, and she grabbed hold of his arm before he could return to the people below. "Erik, that isn't fair. It's… difficult for me. I don't know what to believe about you when some of the things you've done are so… terrible, and then you do or say something and I just want to forget all of that!"

His shoulders hunched and when he looked at her, his eyes were glassy. "And you will not do that? Simply forget?"

She released his arm and looked pointedly at the three bound figures. "How can I when you do something like this?"

He nodded and stood silently for a moment before she once again heard a whisper in her mind. _But Erik must, for you do not trust his word. How else is he to make you understand?_

And then he was descending the stairs toward the witnesses below, any hint of his vulnerability concealed under a mask of height and power. "Do forgive the interruption. The judge required a sidebar."

Each of his captives stared at him silently.

"So," he continued, a satisfied gleam in his eye. "Who would like to testify first?"

* * *

Sooo… Looks like Erik's done it now! Who's surprised? Did you really think I was just going to have him give Christine a sit down and lay out all the facts? Okay, I admit. I was originally just going to have him tell her things. But this will be much more fun, right? And what's a few more felony kidnappings amongst friends, right?

Next up, Judge Christine takes the bench, and we get our first dose of what _really _happened last April…


	20. Chapter 20

Not much to say this week, so I won't say much. Just… enjoy the beginning of the new trial! Who's ready to learn more about our 'defendants'?

Onward!

* * *

XX

"What, no volunteers?" Erik continued, his voice a dulcet tone of ridicule. "Pity."

He walked behind Ms. Poligny, his fingers deftly undoing the knot that secured the cloth between her lips.

"Water," she croaked out, even as she tried to maintain a hateful glare.

Erik inclined his head as his mouth contorted into a mocking smile. "You did not say please."

She coughed and licked at her lips, obviously contemplating. "_Please,_" she finally answered, her disdain barely concealed.

Erik hummed lowly before walking toward the side of the stage, returning with a bottle of water. He eyed her distastefully as he held it, Ms. Poligny taking deep greedy gulps.

How long had they been kept here?

She thought of her bowls of cereal, her toast, her tea. And then subsequently tried not to feel guilty for eating her fill while Erik might have been keeping others who had nothing.

Apparently Erik had determined she'd had enough for he recapped the bottle and set it aside.

Christine felt bad as the other two men both eyed it longingly.

Erik must have noticed as well, as he shook his head at them reproachfully. "You should have volunteered. But no, you had to remain silent!"

"Erik, maybe you should…"

He rolled his eyes, and she startled when his voice was suddenly at her ear, quiet and almost intimate by its imitation of proximity. "Christine, I can promise you, all three of them shall make it through to their confessions. But the condition they are in when that finally occurs will be up to me. I would thank you to simply listen for a time."

She frowned. Had he just ever so politely told her to be quiet?

Now that Ms. Poligny's thirst had been sated, her glare returned as did her voice. "Let me _go_! I don't know who you are or what you want from me, but this is unacceptable!"

Erik stared at her incredulously. "I believe I was rather clear about what you were doing here. You are going to confess."

Her lips thinned. "Confess to what? I haven't done anything wrong!"

He chuckled darkly, and even Christine knew that her statement was fairly ridiculous. Mr. Chagny had pointed out quite clearly that she was unfaithful to her husband, which seemed a terrible wrong even by the loosest of moral reasonings.

"Nothing, madam? Are you certain you would not like to amend that statement?"

"What? No!"

"Your multiple dalliances with various men throughout the duration of your marriage was not wrong? Furthering the mounting debt of both your personal finances as well as that of your husband was not wrong? Or perhaps you would simply like to inform us of any possible involvement you had in his _untimely _demise."

She scowled at him. "As if you're such a saint. Look at what _you're _doing! You've kidnapped an innocent women and a perfectly decent man as well as…" her eyes drifted to Mr. Nadir and she gave a little shrug. "Well, and him too. And I don't want to even think about what you're doing with that girl up there!"

Christine flinched at that, knowing that Erik would not take kindly to her insinuation.

Her suspicion was proven correct as he leaned in closely and hissed into her ear, the sound low but perfectly audible in the expanse of the theatre. "I would suggest, _madam_, that you not speak of the lady again. She is here to observe, and you are to answer my questions, not to taint her pretty head with whatever venom you are liable to produce."

Ms. Poligny strained against her bindings as she tried to remain as far away from Erik as possible given what little room she had to move, and when she spoke her voice was filled with disgust. "Then if you thought me so terrible, I wonder why you would wish for me to speak at all. Why not simply kill me and get it over with?"

Her voice quavered a bit at the end, and Christine remembered her own terrible fright when she first awoke in Erik's underground home.

Had it really only been such a short time ago?

Erik stared at her placidly. "The time for your death is not at hand, madam. Not yet. But now is not the time to tempt the Fates."

She cowed at that, but only for a moment. For then she was assessing Erik, her gaze cold and her every expression one of pure abhorrence. "You're that disgusting man from the trial, aren't you? The _Opera Ghost._ I can't believe the jury acquitted you, your guilt was obvious."

For the first time, Christine began to remember why she had so vehemently disliked this woman while in court.

She could sympathize with their plight, of course she could. But Erik was right when he spoke of the venom that seemed so ready to fall from her lips.

It made her almost glad that she had remembered some of her manners, even during captivity. For even now she did not like to see the flicker of hurt in Erik's manner, the way his shoulders crept ever so slightly inward, although he recovered quickly.

"We are straying from the topic at hand," he stated firmly, his tone brokering no refusal. "I have convened our merry party here to discuss the nature of your husband's death. I can assure you, if you would merely speak plainly and openly about your involvement, all of this shall pass very quickly."

Ms. Poligny's eyes narrowed. "I fail to see any type of incentive. You already think me guilty of something, so to confirm any of your suspicions would give you leave to kill me. If I refuse to cooperate, the outcome would be similar. So tell me, why should I participate at all?"

Erik was quiet for a moment before he released a sigh. And to Christine it almost sounded… regretful?

"Tell me about your son."

The woman's entire body froze, her face paling instantly. "W-what?"

"Your son, madam. He is what… twenty-four by now? You must have had him very young if his birth certificate is accurate."

"I'm not going to talk about this."

Erik took a step backward, his tone perfectly calm. "Very well, then you shall listen. A Jennifer Claremont, born to a prominent family on the East Coast. A bright future. She falls pregnant, and gives a little boy up for adoption. Her parents want the entire messy episode forgotten, but the girl decides she wants a piece of her son, so demands the records not be closed to her. She received photographs and updates, and due to her disobedience she fell further from her parent's favor."

His head tilted to the side. "So far has my tale been accurate?"

She shook her head, her eyes tightly shut. "Please, just stop it."

"At first you relish your newfound freedom. After all, you cannot possibly disappoint them further, now can you? But eventually the bohemian lifestyle begins to bore you and you long for the comfort and security that comes with money and prestige."

"So what, are you threatening my son? If I don't tell you what you want to know you'll find him and hurt him?"

Erik stared down at her, unfazed by her mixture of fear and indignation.

"Perhaps. I would suggest not testing me to find out."

She was quiet for a long moment, but when next she spoke, she sounded angry and frustrated. "What do you want me to say? You said this was about my husband. Do you want to hear about our marriage? How we only got married because I got pregnant. How my parents would have loved that—_two _children I managed to conceive while still unmarried_. _Only this time I knew there was no way I was giving up another baby so I did what you were supposed to. I married Edgar. Or maybe you want to know about my miscarriage? About how he wouldn't even look at me afterward, let alone touch me? That I was some great failure with no reason to be married to him anymore?"

Erik blinked at her and Christine too was taken aback. These were not the details she had expected, nor was she even sure she wanted to hear such things. It was too personal, too filled with pain.

But what had she expected? A cold, unfeeling woman who reveled in her husband's demise?

It would have been easier.

Erik recovered more quickly than she did. "Not quite. I would rather we focus on more present events."

Her expression hardened. "I don't think so."

"Why? Because you have something even more shameful to confess?"

This time her glower was fierce and her demeanor resolved. "No, because I don't have to answer to you."

"Ah, but I think you do. If you allow a man to be tried for your crimes, I do believe you owe him the benefit of a full explanation of your actions."

Christine couldn't take it anymore, and she walked carefully down the steps. She was unprepared for Erik's reproachful glare, but this all felt horribly wrong—as if they were trespassing on secrets they had no business being privy to.

She touched his arm lightly and tried to keep her expression soft and pleading. "Please, Erik. Can't you see that this is private? We shouldn't be hearing this."

He scoffed. "And the search of my home was not an invasion of privacy? The indignity of prison life was not an insult against my person?"

Christine swallowed, not liking to think of the abuses he must have suffered while awaiting trial. "That's not what I'm saying," she offered weakly.

"What you are saying is that knowing the truth doesn't matter. That because they are _normal_, they should not have to bare their crimes to the world and confess their wrongdoing. They are not like you, Christine, no matter how much you would like to commiserate with their current plight."

She stared at the bound figures again. Mr. Debienne's eyes were beseeching her, and yet to some small degree, Erik was right. This wasn't the way to handle things—not at all, but if Erik had not actually killed Mr. Poligny, that some conspiracy had framed him as the unhappy scapegoat to a nefarious scheme…

Wasn't he right to take some small bit of justice into his own hands?

She sighed, wondering at the influence he seemed to hold over her mind, that so easily her own convictions could waver by his point of view.

"I…"

Ms. Poligny rolled her eyes. "What a pretty picture. The thing has found a girl that will excuse his own evil actions. I suppose there's someone for us all."

Christine flushed, embarrassed at her assessment and the subtle truth to her words.

Why could she not stand up to him fully? Why did she _want _to think well of him?

She gasped when suddenly Ms. Poligny's chair fell backward, and the woman released a startled cry of her own as she crashed against the floor with a loud _bang. _The height of the back cushion meant that no real harm came to her, but this time when she looked up at Erik looming above her, it was with trepidation.

"I warned you not to speak of the lady. But perhaps you would prefer to continue the trial in this manner, lying about the floor like a dog rather than with the dignity I have so kindly offered."

Her lips pursed. "You keep us locked in the bathroom and claim to offer us dignity?"

Christine stared at Erik, aghast, but he merely shrugged in that elegant way of his.

"There is water and there are facilities to ensure you do not reek of your own filth. Would you prefer a dark cage of stone? I assure you, I do have those available as well."

And despite herself, Christine thought it a rather generous arrangement in comparison to what it might have been.

She peered down at the woman, trying to be as persuasive as possible. "Please, I'm sure if you just cooperate things will go much better for you. He's not an unreasonable man, really he isn't."

Not exactly true, but not an outright lie either.

His desires were not irrational, but the methods he employed to instigate such results were questionable at best.

Ms. Poligny stared at her, before shaking her head. "How can you defend him?"

Christine sighed. "I was one of the jurors. I saw the evidence they used against him and it was… abominable. I don't think that case ever should have gone to trial in the first place, which meant…" she glanced between the captives, with a new perspective.

"Which probably means that one of you killed Mr. Poligny. And then let Erik sit in jail for what… six months? How could you have done that? You accuse him of being a monster—something less than human, and yet where was your conscience when you allowed an innocent man to suffer for a crime he did not commit?"

Ms. Poligny snorted unbecomingly. "Innocent? Maybe he didn't kill my husband, but he was far from guiltless. He terrorized this place! We lost cast members and staff because of escapades when they were too frightened to return to work! But Edgar…"

Christine stooped and picked up the chair, and with a weary sigh Erik assisted her before taking a step backward and crossing his arms, his disapproval at her interference readily evident in his entire posture.

But still Christine persisted, as she knelt down, hoping to appear less intimidating to the woman before her. "Edgar what?"

"He wouldn't sell! There was a madman sending letters and causing accidents but no matter what happened, Edgar wouldn't even consider leaving this place! And let's not even begin to discuss how it hemorrhaged money every month paying the _ghost _for his salary—money that rightfully should have gone to other, more important venues."

This time Erik was the one to interject. "Such as financing your preferences for designer handbags? Or perhaps adding yet another tennis court to your monstrosity of a mansion so that you would have an excuse to employ a young and agile professional for _lessons_?"

Ms. Poligny grimaced. "That was our money. _Ours._ And if I wanted to use it like that, it was nobody's business but my own. I certainly don't need your judgment for it!"

Christine surprised herself by being the one to remind her of her husband's rights. "Wouldn't Mr. Poligny have had a say? It was his income after all, and if he thought it worth it to give Erik a portion…"

"Oh yes, because I'm just the greedy, money grubbing wife, isn't that right?"

Christine blushed for she _had _thought that. The age difference, the perfectly manicured nails, the air of detachment…

Not everything was black and white. If she had learned anything throughout the course of the trial—even over the last few days—it was that.

"We all have our reasons for doing things, and to others they may seem petty or… well… _wrong_," she glanced over at Erik who continued to frown at her, realizing that her words were just as true in regard to him as they were for Ms. Poligny. "But now is the time to explain your side of things. Do you really want him to be the one to tell what happened? Or would you rather try to describe your side of things?"

Ms. Poligny's brow furrowed. "I shouldn't have to justify myself to him, or to you."

Christine gave her a small, sympathetic smile. "Maybe not. But this is the situation we're in, and that doesn't seem to be changing any time soon. So maybe it's better to go along with things, at least for a little while."

Erik stepped forward and took her by the arm, his expression somewhat reproachful. "Is the judge finished interjecting? It's terribly rude to interrupt the prosecution's case, you know."

Christine huffed. "Somehow I don't think you minded very much when Mr. Chagny objected to Mr. Sorelli all the time."

Erik's lips thinned. "That is beside the point."

This time it was her turn to roll her eyes. "Of course it is."

She stepped away from him and instead of returning to her chair, she sat on one of the lower steps before waving as imperiously as she could.

If Erik wanted a judge, then he would have one.

Although he might regret putting her in a place of authority over his own position in their mock court by the time she was finished with it.

"Very well, you may proceed, counselor."

And this time when he looked at her, it was with unmistakable amusement.

"Your honor is not seated properly. That cannot be comfortable for long periods of time."

"Oh for heaven's sake," Ms. Poligny exclaimed, tugging at her bindings once again. "You both are sickening. This whole _thing _is disgusting!"

Erik's expression darkened and Christine stood just as quickly.

He seemed to want to listen to her—liked when she played along. And if she was the judge then he would have to obey her. At least in this.

"The court will come to order!" she demanded, and everyone stopped and looked at her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, willing her nerves down as she mustered up her courage. She could not stop Erik's schemes, that much was certain. But she could exert what small control she had over the situation as she helped to mediate his disgruntled feelings and ensured that he caused no unnecessary harm.

She could be brave.

"Comments like that have no place here, Ms. Poligny," she insisted, walking back up to her chair and sitting down—feeling both regal and ridiculous at the same time. "Please, just inform the court of what happened with your departed husband."

"You're both mad," she answered, her gaze drifting between Erik and Christine in turn.

Christine merely smiled a little, because she did feel just a little bit insane for participating in this at all. But she comforted herself that her reasoning for doing so was sound—but then didn't crazy people think that whatever they did was perfectly sane?

It was all too confusing.

So instead she turned her attention to Erik. "Perhaps things would proceed more rapidly if you directed the questions. It can be a bit difficult to know where to begin."

And after all, he was the only one who seemed to know what was really going on, so it was only logical that he guided the process to its conclusion.

She only hoped that it ended well for all parties involved.

"Ms. Poligny, how would you classify your relationship with Claude Debienne?"

She cast a hasty glance at the man beside her before resolutely looking away. "He was my husband's business partner. We therefore had an amicable relationship. Christmas parties, the occasional lunch, things like that."

"Ah yes, but as he testified to in court, there were also some meetings in hotel rooms. And he was quick to point out that you frequently asked him about the nature of the _notes _delivered to the Opera House."

Her eyes widened. "He _what_?"

She glared at Mr. Debienne, the ferocity in the expression even greater than one she had managed for either Erik or Christine.

"Indeed. But you sound surprised! What did you think he would say on the witness stand?"

Her lips pursed and she said nothing.

"Come now, madam, you may be candid here. You knew he was being called to the stand, so what did you think he was going to say?"

She chuffed out a frustrated breath. "I don't know, that there was a blackmailer in the theatre. That I cared about Edgar—not suggest that _I _was the one extorting money from my own husband!" She turned to Mr. Debienne. "How could you? I _trusted _you!"

Erik leaned in closer. "Trusted him to what, madam? To lie for you?"

"What? No!"

"Then why would you care if he implicated you? After all, if there is no evidence of your wrongdoing, you would not currently be looking at him like he had betrayed you in some horrifying manner."

Her head whipped back towards Erik, while Mr. Debienne mumbled behind his gag, his intent to explain himself obvious, yet impossible given the impediment.

"You'll have to wait your turn, Debienne," Erik reminded him. "You are only going to make yourself drool, which is highly unbecoming a man of your stature." He returned his focus to the widow. "Now, Ms. Poligny, perhaps we shall try this again. What is your relationship with this man? I'm only going to ask you this once more and then we'll give him an opportunity to speak. And obviously he has proven himself more than willing to cast you in a rather unflattering light."

She was quiet a moment, obviously contemplating. "What I said is true. He is… was… first and foremost my husband's business partner. But when things got… bad between me and Edgar, he was easy to talk to. Sympathetic. And over time we came to realize that we had some… mutual interests."

Christine couldn't help but lean forward slightly, her interest peaked, while Erik remained as calm and collected as ever. "Mutual interests. Such as… skydiving? Mountain climbing? Cow wrangling?"

She groaned in annoyance. "We both wanted to sell the Opera House, okay? And Edgar didn't want to. Was that so wrong? Claude wanted to retire, and I just… I wanted the chance at a different life. A divorce would have left me with nothing. And I couldn't go back to that. Not again. Not after everything."

An uneasy feeling settled in Christine's stomach as she regarded Mr. Debienne and Ms. Poligny. During the trial she had thought the widow cold and unfeeling, a gold digger if ever there was one. Mr. Debienne had been uncomfortable, his entire posture relating most blatantly that there was more to his story than simply his testimony.

And seeing them now, his eyes beseeching her to remain silent, while she looked so resigned and her tone was so wholly defensive…

It suddenly became abundantly clear that Mr. Debienne was partner to more than one Poligny.

* * *

Sooo… Has anyone's feelings for Ms. Poligny changed based on her story? Still think she's guilty? And what about the business partner? Any theories about him? And I don't think they're being as polite in captivity as dear Christine…

Please review!


	21. Chapter 21

Who's ready for more answers? We'll get some real ones this time! Promise!

Now, onward!

* * *

XXI

Despite her tremulous participation, it was still difficult to sit idly by as she watched Ms. Poligny struggle and cry out as Erik eased the cloth between her lips and tied it behind her head.

And from the way she winced, it was clear that some of her hair had tangled within the knot.

"Is that necessary?" she asked softly.

Erik hummed again, going to Mr. Debienne and working at the knot that held his own gag in place. "I am afraid so," he answered. "We would not want them to contaminate one another's testimonies."

She supposed that made sense, but it made it no less uncomfortable to witness.

But still she mouthed _I'm sorry _to Ms. Poligny, who only looked away from her pointedly in response.

Well. That was uncalled for.

The knot finally gave way and Erik held the soiled cloth with only the tips of two fingers, his distaste evident as he regarded the wetted portion.

And while Christine would not have liked to touch it either, it was only there because of his own intervention, and it seemed only fitting that he be the one to deal with it now.

Except instead of tucking it somewhere on his person, he leaned forward and shoved it into the breast pocket of Mr. Debienne's jacket, patting it with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"That's for drooling unnecessarily," he explained, although the wary glances the owner was giving him did not require any such clarification.

The manager sighed, shaking his head tiredly. "What are you going to use on me to get me to talk? I can assure you, I have no children running about to use for leverage."

Erik shrugged. "I would not be so certain of that. You were not exactly faithful to your wife either. Are you certain that one of your mistresses never conceived?"

To Christine's surprise, Mr. Debienne snorted derisively. "Yes, I am. Because there's no chance in hell that if one of them had gotten pregnant, they wouldn't have shown up here demanding child support."

"How dreadful for you," Erik responded dryly, and Christine was inclined to agree with his rather sarcastic assessment.

She knew how difficult it was to make a living in this city, and to have the added expenditure of a child…

She'd heard enough stories from her fellow waitresses to understand how challenging it could be.

Christine got that sinking feeling again as she thought of her job at the restaurant. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed, the darkness making her body's natural rhythms all muddled. Had she missed a shift? Would she find calls from Ewan ranging from concerned to resigned as he apologetically informed her that she no longer was employed?

It made her feel all the more trapped, for if she did succeed in convincing Erik to let her go, now she would not have a job to return to. An apartment that would be paid for by him, but no other means to support herself, not to mention poor Boo who still needed food and litter and the occasional toy to play with…

She shook herself. Now was not the time to think of such things. She would play along with the trial for now, then when they had returned down below she could broach the subject properly.

Mr. Debienne was looking anywhere but at Erik, his eyes lingering sometimes upon her, his brow furrowed as if trying to place where he had seen her before.

Erik stepped slightly to the left so as to disrupt his view. "It is rude not to give your attention to the one who is speaking to you, Debienne."

He cleared his throat awkwardly and managed a small glance upward. "S-sorry," he muttered.

Erik sniffed. "I am certain you will be."

Christine shifted uneasily in her seat, not at all liking the sound of that. He had promised not to harm them, hadn't he?

But then… he hadn't really. He'd only said that she might not wish to _make _him promise once she'd learned what he'd done.

She nibbled at her lip and tried to rally her courage in case her intervention proved necessary.

"Now, I do not think that I shall have to employ such unsavory methods in order to persuade you into speaking. I think that this has been pressing on your conscience for months now. You've been looking a little sickly… lost weight, have you?"

Mr. Debienne swallowed. "Maybe a bit. My doctor says…"

"Ah, but it was not for your health that you did so. No, I would venture that the guilt, the terrible, overwhelming guilt of what you have done turns food to ash in your mouth. That you cannot sleep at night without thinking of the man that you betrayed. The man you called friend that you allowed to pay so dearly for your selfishness."

Christine did not miss the glance Erik gave Mr. Nadir as he said this, and she was reminded once again how hurt he must have been because of the trial. To be falsely accused, to be judged so harshly by strangers and friend alike…

Mr. Debienne's lips thinned. "I…"

"Tell me, was your conscience prickled when first you concocted the plot, or did the guilt only surface after your partner's demise?"

He frowned. "What are you asking?"

Erik scoffed. "I thought it quite obvious. I am asking if you were enough of a monster that you thought nothing of plotting to kill your dear friend. That your hatred of him was so deep and pervasive that it was only afterward that you stopped to consider the dreadful act you had committed."

"I didn't hate him!" Mr. Debienne insisted, this time facing Erik fully. "He… he just…"

Erik took a step nearer, his voice gentling to a persuasive caress. "He just what, Debienne? Deserved to die?"

"No! No, he didn't! He hadn't done anything wrong and yet we…"

Ms. Poligny screeched then, the sound barely muffled from the obstruction of her mouth, and Erik pinned her with a glare. "Madam, do control yourself. We are finally getting to the heart of the matter."

Christine watched all of this with her pulse racing. It seemed too easy—that without doing anything at all, Erik was masterfully extracting a confession of murder.

But what was the common phrase? Confession is good for the soul?

And how much would having planned and implemented a murder weigh upon one's conscience?

She had naively thought that a murderer would be a cold, calculating individual. That they were incapable of feeling much of anything at all if they were able to snuff out the life of another.

But as she watched the man before her, perspiration at his temples as he warred with himself about whether or not to speak the truth of what happened last April, it was clear that her belief had been very wrong indeed.

She half expected Erik to shout at him, to cajole him into confession with threats of violence. Or perhaps he would provoke a heated argument that finally persuaded Mr. Debienne to blurt out the truth of his involvement.

But instead Erik placed his hands on both of the chair arms as he leaned forward, Mr. Debienne casting fearful glances about the room—at _her—_obviously uncertain as to what Erik intended to do.

"You were upset at my trial, were you not? It was clear that the guilt had taken hold of you already—that it pained you to lie while under oath. Yet you did. And even now you long for relief, for the blessed respite of speaking the truth you wish so desperately was not so…"

Erik straightened, his tone still soft and persuasive, and it sent a shiver down Christine's spine as even she felt some niggling need to spill out secrets of her own, simply because he had asked it.

"I am offering that to you, Debienne. Simply tell me what you did…"

Words of objection were not necessary as Mr. Debienne glanced toward Ms. Poligny's, her eyes clearly threatening harm upon him if he said anything, and yet he turned away from her, his eyes over-bright and glassy.

"It shouldn't have come to this," he finally admitted. "I never thought I was capable of something like this until… until I was already too involved. Too caught up in all of it to just… stop and think rationally."

This time his focus vacillated between Erik and Christine, his expression pleading. "You have to understand, I will regret this the rest of my life. I'm not a bad man, I just… things got away from me!"

"A supreme tragedy," Erik interjected. "But do save your pretense of remorse and simply _state what you have done._"

Mr. Debienne sighed, whatever vestiges of strength seeming to leave him. "I killed him," he murmured, almost too quietly for Christine to hear. "I went to him that night, to try to convince him to sell. I had a buyer, _good _buyers that would have taken care of the place, but still he wouldn't give in! 'This was our dream,' he said. As if I didn't remember! But things started getting bad and we were hemorrhaging money." He cast an accusing glance at Erik. "And your salary certainly didn't help matters."

Erik gave a derisive laugh. "Do not place such responsibility on me, Debienne. If you had listened to me, this place would have flourished! But you insisted on casting talentless fools, on pandering to patrons and making concessions."

"We had to do that! So much of business is politics, of favors and relations with the right people. Some things you couldn't possibly understand!"

Erik scoffed. "Ah yes, because I have not already proven that I know all of what happens in my theatre. Obviously the subtle nuances of business are far beyond my ken."

Mr. Debienne flushed, and Christine couldn't help but cut in. They were finally getting somewhere—he had confessed to having killed his partner, and yet now that Erik was insulted they seemed to be digressing.

Feeling rather stupid, she raised her hand into the air as if waiting to be called upon in school, only for both men to be so busy glaring at one another that her action was ignored.

"Excuse me," she tried again, although her voice wavered as Erik's frown settled upon her. But she had a question and this was apparently _her _court, and she would not be silent in it. "You say you killed him—that you just went there to reason with him. Then why had he received a note beforehand threatening to kill him?"

Erik's attention returned to Mr. Debienne, who looked mildly sick at the whole situation. "Yes, please do enlighten us as to why my good name was sullied so distastefully."

Christine would not have gone _that _far, the moniker of Opera Ghost hardly having been synonymous with motives considered beyond reproach. But still, it was that letter which seemed to assure the prosecution of his guilt, and if Mr. Debienne had anything to do with it, she supposed Erik was justified in his indignation.

At least in part.

Mr. Debienne's eyes shifted to Ms. Poligny, and if Christine had not been watching so closely, she would have missed the almost imperceptible shake of the woman's head that appeared to convince him to cease his cooperation.

"I shall say no more on the subject," he finally replied. "You got what you wanted, I've confessed. I hardly see the importance to draw out the matter further."

Erik glowered. "I see a very great need. You have yet to fully explain yourself to the court, which is precisely the point of this little exercise!"

But he seemed to have found some bit of courage, or perhaps it was pure obstinance, for he shook his head and refused to say more.

She was going to intercede, nervous as she was as Erik growled and reached into the man's pocket before securing his gag once more. But despite her worry, he did not strike him, although she rather thought he caught some of his hair within the knot on purpose, as he smiled rather smugly as Mr. Debienne winced.

And yet as she watched it all happen, her questions still unanswered as to the full nature of Mr. Poligny's death, she did believe that his partner had killed him—although she had yet to believe it happened the way he had confessed.

"Very well, I had hoped to be finished with our trial today, but it appears that some of you have decided to become uncooperative. As such, _all _of you are going to enjoy your generous accommodations until the court reconvenes." His eyes flickered to Christine. "Would you care to make it official?"

She was momentarily confused, the abrupt ending to the day's strange beginnings leaving her flustered and uncertain. But quickly she remembered the judge's final words of the day, and at Erik's expectant look, she hastened to comply.

"Court is in recess until… tomorrow." It came out more as a question than the commanding tone of a true judge, but Erik appeared pleased enough and she supposed that was what mattered most.

As long as he was satisfied, he wouldn't do anything rash. And a calm Erik meant better things for all of his captives, including her and Boo.

That's what she told herself, in any case.

He walked to the side of the stage and pressed the button once more, lowering his hostages back into the recesses of the floor. Belatedly she realized she would need to move as well, but she watched the three of them descend into the blackened depths with a shiver.

And before she could move, Erik had reached her, holding out his hand to help her from the platform.

"Are you going to leave them there?" she asked timidly.

Erik shook his head, and ever so gently she felt his thumb rub soothingly at her knuckles. "No, they will be returned to their respective _guestrooms _until we see fit to continue the trial. Who knows," he added, his voice growing fond and teasing, "with your sleeping habits, we may not see them again for another few days."

"Ha ha," she responded dryly, cursing herself as she felt her cheeks warm. She had never been ashamed of how much she slept before, and she certainly didn't wish to start now. "But you'll… feed them, won't you?"

He rolled his eyes. "They will not starve," he assured her, his voice slightly exasperated. "I will however need to escort them to their rooms before we return home."

She thought again how dark it seemed below the stage, and how he would not be the gentle, attentive man she had grown somewhat used to. He would bluster and seek to frighten, and that was not something she wished to witness.

He led her toward the side of the stage, past the luscious curtains and toward the darkened recesses that presumably would open to the inner works of the impressive structure.

Only for her to fall back and balk at the very idea of venturing down below.

Erik stopped, and looked at her questioningly. "Christine?"

There was a circular staircase that seemed to disappear into the very floor, inky blackness surrounding the opening—almost as if it was waiting to swallow her into the very bowels of the earth.

She shuddered.

"Please don't make me go down there."

Erik frowned. "The defendants are down there," he reasoned slowly. "I must tend to them before we return home."

She nodded numbly. "I don't want to go down there," she repeated.

He seemed torn, his gaze alternating between the stairs and her eyes as he considered her plea.

"If I leave you here, you will not… be here when I return."

Honestly, the thought of escape had not even crossed her mind. All she knew was that she most certainly wanted nothing to do with what happened downstairs.

And was she willing to forego her possible one chance at freedom to avoid the frightening blackness?

She swallowed. And with a sinking heart and disappointment in herself, she realized that she was.

"I'll be here," she promised, her voice as firm as she could make it even as she knew her demeanor revealed nothing remotely confident. She felt shaky, her breath short as she continued to vacillate between the terrifying stair and Erik's own hesitant visage.

"We are to build… trust, you and I." He responded questioningly.

She nodded furiously. "Yes, trust. And I… I won't break that, Erik. I will not leave the theatre, I swear it."

His eyes narrowed, and she felt almost that he could see into her very soul as he searched her expression for any sign of deceit.

Did it make her terrible for knowing unequivocally that he would find none?

For in this moment, she had no intention of running from the stage, of fleeing to the entrance and testing the great doors to see if they would be the means of her escape.

Did that make her a coward, already succumbing to Erik's wiles?

She didn't know.

He took a shaky breath and released her hand, his eyes betraying how much it pained him to do so.

"You will not leave the theatre," he confirmed. "You will not try to run." His smile was shaky and so very hesitant, and some part of her longed to soothe him, to promise that she would never try to do so. "We cannot hold a court without our judge, you know."

Her answering smile was just as tremulous. "I know. So go tend to your defendants and then we'll go convince Boo that we're not terrible people for having an adventure without him."

Erik grimaced at that. "He is likely not to believe us," he warned, and Christine was grateful for his change in tone, for if he continued to look at her so mournfully, she probably would have relented and faced the terrors of below, clinging to some part of him all the while.

And with a last glance at her, one that left he with the impression that he was trying to memorize her every feature in case she did not keep to her promise, he disappeared beneath the stage.

Leaving her entirely alone.

If it was a strange thing to hold a mock court in one of the most grand and opulent theatres in the country, it was stranger still to suddenly be alone upon the stage. He had left the lights on, for which she was very grateful, but her every footstep echoed in the empty hall, the rows of perfectly aligned seats staring at her as she shuffled across the stage.

Did her papa dream of her performing here? Of her working, practicing, _breathing _the music he loved every day before an audience who appreciated song as much as he.

But instead of filling her with anticipation and excitement, she merely felt small and frightfully alone. Now would be the time to test the acoustics, to even so much as hum an errant tune so she would at least claim to have experienced the grandeur of such a magnificent place, but as she stood there, her arms gripped together tightly as she surveyed the theatre, all she wanted to do was leave it.

She did not run, did not even hurry her steps as she walked through the neat aisle and through the doors beyond. The entrance was of the finest marble, her boots making her presence known in the great expanse, although she tried to be silent.

There was no need for artificial light here, the tall, paned windows that faced the street allowing enough illumination to quell any fear of shadows or hidden things. It was much later than she would have thought, dusk settling in, her view of the setting sun obstructed much as it was always done by the tall buildings throughout the city.

But still she crept closer, her eyes lingering on the world beyond—a world that while not particularly kind to her, was familiar and appealing in its own way.

Her hand fell to the gold handle of the door, polished to a bright shine from the many patrons that had come to this theatre seeking a momentary respite from the drudgery of their lives.

To be swept away, if only for a moment, in a world of music and art, of passion and tragedy.

She gave the door a half-hearted tug, simply to see if it would open.

Christine did not know what she would have done it if had opened, but when it resisted her feeble effort, she felt no need to force the issue.

She had given her word to Erik, and while she would have liked to have at least breathed the fresh air, she doubted it would be worth his anger at finding her on the front steps.

So she contented herself with gazing out the window. There were few people milling about, and she vaguely wondered if she should try to garner any of their attention.

But soon she felt a presence behind her, and she was glad that Erik had not caught her doing something so undignified as waving her arms about and shouting.

"Enjoying the view?" He asked, his voice betraying no displeasure at her chosen spot to wait for him.

"It snowed," she replied, surprised at that fact. The days had grown colder to be sure, but she had thought that winter was farther away than that.

More would have to come to blanket the city in its crisp freshness, to blur the grime that clung to rooftops and streets and stone with a layer into a sheet of pure white.

But it was a beginning and one that she realized now she might not be so fortunate as to experience.

Not that she would mind being spared the trek through the wet slurry on her way home from work.

But it was a difficult sacrifice she had to make all the same to but be freed of such things.

Erik was studying her carefully when she at last turned to look at him, his expression inscrutable. She managed a small smile, although she knew it was a rather pathetic attempt. "Are your defendants all situated?"

"Quite so," he replied.

He offered his arm, and with a quiet sigh she accepted it, giving one last fleeting glance to the outside world.

She would ask for more in time. She would suggest they go for a stroll and enjoy the new world the snow had created. Then perhaps mention that she would like to stay the night in her apartment and she would see him in the morning if he would care to join her for breakfast the next day.

And just as easily as he eased her through the darkened tunnels, thoughts of Boo and food and warm covers reminding her of the necessity of facing the inky blackness within, she would ease him into the idea of starting their relationship again.

This time where she was given a choice in the matter.

* * *

Sooo... Christine took quite a risk wandering off like that! Erik seems rather calm, doesn't he? Wonder if that's going to last...

And we have a confession! Think he's lying? Or is there more going on? Hmm...

Next up, our lovely couple are going to need to talk about some... things...

Please review!


	22. Chapter 22

Okay, a big thank you to _Belle, _because I completely forgot that today was a posting day. So everybody knows who to thank for actually getting this today! Well, for those of us that still have today as a Saturday anyway... But yes. My apologies that it was so late!

Anyway, onward!

* * *

XXII

She didn't know why the prospect of entering the tunnels was not quite so terrifying as going beneath the darkened stage. Perhaps it was because Boo was on the other side of the black maze, a very tangible reason why she had to descend once again. Maybe it was that Erik had a lantern that he was sure to hold up high, casting as much light as he could for her, even as he gave her sympathetic looks whenever her hold on his arm would tighten if they passed a particularly large insect, or a rat scurried past.

She had not been able to contain her shriek the first time it had happened, and for a while afterward she had continued walking with her face pressed against the cloth of Erik's arm, not wanting to see anything else.

He had not protested.

"You make this trek every time you want to go somewhere?" She finally asked, as he instructed her to keep close to the right wall, which she did with a careful eye to ensure she did not brush up against anything horrifying.

Erik replaced her hand on his arm once they had bypassed… whatever it was.

"There are many options on how to reach the above, but most can be tedious. I must therefore ensure that the journey is worth the effort."

She huffed, a small rock somehow having managed to find its way into her boot—a rather valiant endeavor, for a pebble.

It was beginning to bother her heel, and she dreaded tomorrow's return if she managed to bruise something, so with a huff she stopped. "Is it safe for me to fix my shoe, or will something dreadful happen?"

Erik turned to her, his expression a mixture of incredulity and amusement. "I do not think you yet realize that while in my presence there is nothing dreadful that _can _happen to you."

She did not share his confidence, but also felt no need to argue the point.

He had placed his trust in her when he left her alone in the theatre, and he had yet to do anything truly… _harmful_ to her as of yet…

She leaned against the wall and tugged at her boot, the newness of the leather making it rather uncooperative as she hobbled.

And this time there was no mistaking the laughter in his eyes as he watched her.

"Has your shoe offended you in some way?"

She grunted, staring down at the floor bemusedly before conceding that she likely would be unable to get it off without sitting down.

But when she made to do just that, Erik halted her with a quick hold upon her arm. "What are you doing?" he questioned, his tone one of mild alarm.

She eyed the floor suspiciously in search of anything _alive_. The stones were by no means clean, but they did not appear harmful—and she _had _sat upon public benches before and these tunnels seemed to be used far less than any of those.

"There's something in my boot, and I need to get it out."

He frowned. "If your footwear is unsatisfactory, I shall procure more for you."

Christine couldn't help it.

She laughed.

And while it seemed absurd to be laughing in a dark, dank tunnel with a man who had drugged and kidnapped her, it also felt _good _to do so.

To enjoy a moment free from fear and uncertainty.

"Don't blame the boots for it, Erik," she assured him when at last her ridiculous laughter quieted. He was looking very alarmed now, his eyes assessing as if she had suddenly suffered some kind of brain injury that would explain her outburst, which only made her chuckle more. "It's only a stone. But are you going to let me sit down so I can get it out?"

"No," he responded resolutely.

And before she could open her mouth to protest, to pepper him with questions as to _how _he intended for her to make the last leg of the journey back to his home without injury, he pulled out a cloth from his pocket—a handkerchief perhaps?—and laid it neatly on the stone floor beside the lantern.

Erik soon followed, his knee safely protected from any dirt or potential soiling by the sacrificial cloth, and he took the offending boot within his large hands, removing it with a firm tug. It did not immediately yield the desired result, so he gave it an additional shake as he peered inside, evidently determined to ensure the pebble's relocation to the floor.

Christine simply stared down at him, never imagining that he would do something so… chivalrous. Not when everything about him, from his manner of dress to the very words he chose, were all selected so that none could question that he was a man of dignity.

When he had mentioned his time awaiting trial, he had not complained of the abuses he suffered beyond that which trespassed on his sense of decorum—his privacy.

And yet he would prefer to take such a deferential position before her rather than allow her to have to sit upon the hard, stone floor.

She swallowed when he gave a satisfied nod.

Her breath caught as his hand wrapped around her sock covered calf.

She trembled as he eased her foot back into the boot.

And she did not miss the way his fingers lingered at the small bit of flesh where her skirt met the boot's edge.

"T-thank you," she murmured softly.

He stood and nodded stiffly as he collected the cloth and the lantern once more.

"You are most welcome," he answered formally. "Shall we continue?"

She nodded and took his arm silently, the air between them slightly different.

And she didn't know what to make of it.

So she cleared her throat and grasped for a safer topic, one that would make her stomach stop fluttering and her heart stop racing.

"What did you mean when you said that you'd caused the judge enough mischief?"

Erik sighed, but from the way his arm seemed to relax beneath her fingertips, he clearly was not upset by her choice of questions.

"Sometimes one has to test the limits of one's power. As it so happens, the judge has a teenage son that was quite amenable to the idea of performing odd jobs for monetary reward. Evidently the judge did not approve of his… excursions, especially when they had him out of the house at all hours of the day."

Christine's brow furrowed. "You… paid him to do things? Just because you could?"

Erik shrugged. "I had to see if he _would._ Because if so, and the outcome of the trial did not go in my favor…"

"You wanted to know what… _who_…you could manipulate," Christine finished numbly.

"Precisely."

"But… what did you have him doing?"

"Errands," he responded vaguely.

And no matter how she pressed or wheedled, he would not give her more details than that.

They finally did reach his underground home, and she waited impatiently for him to open the door so she could see to Boo. Now that they were so close, she realized she had no way of knowing how long they had been gone, and the poor kitten could not communicate if something was wrong, or if he was lonely or if the walls had caved in on him and he needed help…

Perhaps that was a bit extreme, since having now been out and seeing the impressive structure of the opera house and its foundation, she no longer believed them to be in imminent danger of caves ins and rock slides.

But still she scooped up the mewling Boo as soon as the door was open, his little body trying to escape through the opening—and he would have succeeded if not for Christine's quick intervention.

"You shouldn't try to escape, Boo!" she chastised, even while snuggling his warm body next to her cheek and pressing kisses on his silky fur. "What if I hadn't noticed and then you couldn't get back in?"

"Listen to your mistress, little one," Erik added, "although you might want to caution her against wandering away as well."

Christine glanced up at him in surprise, but he was removing his coat, and she could not get an adequate assessment of his expression. "Why would you say that?"

Erik hummed and placed his coat upon the waiting hook. "Because it is true. You cannot imagine my discomfort when I returned to the stage and you were no longer there."

Even just speaking of it she could see how his shoulders tensed and she moved a bit closer, placing Boo on the floor before doing so.

His eyes were closed and he looked almost pained.

She suddenly realized how much she had frightened him.

And that she was sorry for it.

Which in itself was a ridiculous notion. She _should _frighten him occasionally. It should be mutually agreed upon that if given the opportunity, she would return to her life above and consider whether or not to press charges for kidnapping.

But as she regarded him, the drawn lines of his tightly pressed mouth, the sunken nature of his eyes that made her heart hurt when they looked at her with such loneliness and despair—she found that she did not want to be the cause of more of either.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she tried. "I just wanted to see outside. I didn't mean for you… I didn't think…"

His eyes opened abruptly, the corners of his mouth turning downward. "You didn't think that I would assume the worst? You did not think that you would try the boundaries of your freedom and then decide if you would remain true to your word?"

She took a step backward, his tone cutting and harsh.

"I…"

Could she admit that she had tried the doors? Would he understand if he knew of it?

"I don't want to lie to you," she offered lamely.

He chuckled darkly. "A wise desire, as I am quite adept at providing incentive for speaking truly."

Christine shuddered, knowing firsthand the lengths he would go to should he desire someone to confess. "I wasn't going to leave," she started again, trying to be brave and not shy away from his potential anger. "Really I wasn't. But it was so _big _and frightening to be alone in the auditorium, and I just…" she sighed. "I admit, I would have sat on the steps and waited for you if I could. I miss the fresh air, you know that!"

He walked away from her, going to the fire and placing another log upon the embers, urging it to catch with the poker.

His silence worried her.

"Is that… was that so wrong?"

He turned so quickly, and with the poker still held within his hand, his eyes bright and angry, he was a frightening figure indeed.

But he must have seen her answering alarm as she stared at his potential weapon, and he replaced it with its brethren of tools and turned back to her. "If you wished to wait outside, then you should have _said _so. But to simply disappear…"

Christine nibbled her lip, trying to imagine it from his perspective, even as she grew exasperated and impatient in her own mind.

No matter how he liked to pretend otherwise, she was as much a captive as the souls upstairs. She had kept to the only vow she had given him, she hadn't escaped, hadn't shouted for help or anything of the kind.

And yet still he looked at her as if she had done something dreadful.

He would have gone under the stairs to fetch his prisoners before taking them to their respective rooms for the night.

Perhaps he would have hurried with their bindings, nervous at leaving her alone and unguarded.

Perhaps he would have been less than gentle in his haste, tossing them in their rooms and securing them callously before returning to her.

Only to find the stage empty, none of the seats filled with her presence.

And to a man who seemed intent on keeping her, she could readily imagine the terror he would have felt.

Simply to find her staring out the window in the foyer, placid and docile as she watched the world beyond, putting up no resistance as he offered his arm to return them to his underground home.

"I was not going to leave," she assured him again, only she knew that the words were not enough. She had thought she had proven her trustworthiness, but still she had frightened him, whether her intention or not.

"Maybe," he replied, "but not because you wish to be with me."

She flinched, because it was true.

And she could not argue with him against the truth.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she responded helplessly.

He confused her. More than any man she had ever met. She couldn't reconcile her feelings about him even if he asked her to—even though she _should _by all rational accounts.

Because then he smiled at her again, that sad, hopeless smile that made her heart ache in ways she never could have imagined.

What was wrong with her?

Was she truly that lonely, that desperate, that she could so willingly dismiss all of his misconduct simply to assuage her own unhappiness?

She remembered so accusingly asking if he found her pathetic.

Only to now ask herself the very same thing.

"Is it not obvious what I want?" he murmured softly.

He gestured about his home with a little shrug, his eyes so full of pain and longing.

But she wasn't ready to concede yet. Wasn't ready to give in to whatever weakness made her want to, so she hugged her arms about herself and shook her head.

"You transferred Joe. If you were just jealous you already took care of that. There's no need to continue this anymore! You could just… let me go, let me and Boo go home and we could… see where things go from there."

She hadn't meant to broach this subject now. They were going to return here and tend to Boo, then maybe she would have a cup of tea and allow the events of the day to settle over her.

But here they were, and she couldn't take the words back—no matter how much she wished to once she saw how they wounded him further.

"You were special," he reminded her, "_are _special. You seemed almost like me in your own way. Alone, forgotten, unappreciated." He tilted his head to the side. "Why do you think I was upset about your bailiff?"

She blinked at him, confused by his sudden shift in conversation. "You… said that if I started to go out with him, you wouldn't have a chance with me anymore. I figured you just didn't want me to begin dating him."

Erik nodded. "That is true enough. I admit that I found the prospect of you… _dating… _him, to be quite distasteful. But that is not why I… acted so suddenly."

"Then why?" she implored, the question of far graver importance than she realized. "Why did you have to do it?"

He sighed, a strained sound even as he crossed the room and fiddled with his books upon the shelf, evidently unwilling to look at her.

"I am not so uneducated as to the wooing process," he began. "Two individuals with a mild interest in one another, exchanging pleasantries over conversation while consuming food or beverages."

She had never thought of a date in such clinical terms, but she supposed that was true enough.

"And that troubled you."

He chuckled lowly. "Hardly. I would have been glad to see you fed, although, if I was being fully candid, I would have been a bit jealous that it was not I who provided you the desired meal."

She bit her retort that he had _provided _too much already, whether it be roses or mysterious notes.

She would not regret Boo though.

Never Boo.

She took a step closer, wishing she could extract the words he seemed so reticent to speak.

"Erik, just tell me. I have been a pretty good sport about all this, haven't I?"

He did look at her then, a tired smile playing about his lips. "You are too good to me. I would not blame you if you hated Erik… hated _me _for what I have done."

Christine groaned. "I don't hate you. Sometimes I think I should but even now…" she gave a little shrug.

His eyes brightened and he seemed on the verge to press her further, but she continued quickly. "Please, don't ask me how I _do _feel. I barely know, and trying to express it…"

Erik appeared slightly disappointed, but agreed with a nod. "It would be rude to demand your answer when I am not yet prepared to express my feelings either."

Rude would not have been the word she would've chosen, but she was not about to argue.

"We're straying from the subject," she reminded gently, and this time his smile was more genuine.

"Indeed we have. I believe you were going to guess why I acted so rashly."

Christine frowned, and she feared it bordered on a pout. "No, you were going to _tell _me why you acted as you did. That is very different."

He hummed noncommittally and he avoided her gaze once again as he fiddled with the spine of an expensive looking book. "You were being intimate with him," he finally confessed, and Christine no longer had to worry about her potentially ridiculous pout for her mouth dropped open in her astonishment.

"_Intimate_? I… I never slept with Joe! We never even kissed!"

Erik's eyes widened and there was no mistaking the horror that overtook his features as he regarded her. "I am most gratified to hear it, otherwise my actions would have to be amended—a simple _transfer _would be far too light a punishment for trespassing upon your sweetness!"

Well, that was…

Christine wasn't sure what that was.

A compliment? A threat? Maybe a mixture of both. But she was too dumbfounded to do more than stare and hope that he would clarify his meaning without her prompting.

For she could not even begin to find the words to attempt to do so.

He coughed slightly, and she realized how odd she found such an action to be when coming from him. She remembered his wince when she made a similar sound, and it made him more… human somehow. She rarely stopped to consider it, but he did have a beautiful voice. It could turn from the smoothest of silk, all too compelling with its power than she ever would have thought possible, to rough velvet when he grew distraught and dangerous.

Such power to wield upon his whim.

And yet now he seemed awkward and unsure, and she recognized that she had inadvertently made them trespass on a forbidden subject—one that she would gladly forsake once more.

"I most certainly did not mean to suggest that you had formed an inappropriate attachment with him during your _short _acquaintance," he said with an undercurrent of reprimand, as if to remind her that she had only known him for the few weeks of the trial and that anything more _physical _would have been an insult to her character.

She nearly rolled her eyes at the implication.

It was not as though she had known Erik for any longer.

"Then what did you mean?" she finally managed.

"It is clear that you define intimacy solely on a primal level, but if you were to consider it on a broader sense, what would you make of my reasoning?"

Her lips thinned, wishing that he would simply answer her and abandon his evasiveness altogether.

But she could see how his indignation hid a much larger dose of embarrassment, and tried her best to cooperate.

For she would dearly love to know the _why _that led to her stay here.

"Intimacy…" Christine mused, feeling only a little ridiculous as he stared at her, nearly willing her to understand while also providing her with almost none of his own meaning. "Other than… _you know_," she blushed at that, wishing she hadn't mentioned it at all, "it usually means… sharing things with people? Getting to know one another… the personal details that make for good friends, not just acquaintances."

A sinking feeling settled in her stomach.

"If I had just gone on a date and we exchanged pleasantries, it wouldn't have bothered you so much."

He inclined his head ever so slightly.

"But we… when he walked me to the bus, he said he was sorry about… about my…"

Her throat grew tight and reluctant, and she wondered when she would at last be able to speak of him without the cursed tears that inevitably prickled and threatened to make themselves a nuisance.

"I cannot say that I understand the impulse to grieve for the loss of a parent, it was evident to all in the room that you were not finished mourning for your father. I have also observed that when one _shares _such emotions—that one may commiserate, even participate in that grief with a loss of their own…"

He gestured vaguely about him.

"I may offer you many things. The world if you would ask it of me. But that… to know of that pain and to offer you the comfort and assurance that comes from experience; that I could not do. And I hated him for it," he admitted—and was she terribly mistaken or was there a touch of shame in his voice?

But for what exactly she could not tell.

She fidgeted. She shifted uneasily, the quiet oppressive as she tried to tamp down the growing need within her.

The need to _know._

And she prayed that she was asking rightly when next she spoke.

Because suddenly it mattered very, very much.

"I'm not going to ask you to talk about your… any feelings you may have for me," she assured him, even as he glanced at her with something very akin to alarm. "But Erik, I need to know… what kind of relationship did you see us having? When it was just you and your thoughts and hopes… what did you want to come of this?"

She saw him swallow. Saw his eyes flicker to the bookcase that she knew led to the world beyond.

But she waited patiently and continued to watch him, and finally with a sigh of resignation, he relented. "I wanted there to be one person in the world who did not look at me with disgust. Who managed to smile at me even while supposed evidence was paraded before her eyes about what a monster I am—a murderer."

Christine was unprepared for him to straighten, for him to close the distance between them as his gloved hand made the barest contact against her cheek, a whisper of a touch that still made her breath catch in her throat, for reasons she could not name.

"I wanted to believe, even for a moment, that same girl could come to know me, share part of herself with me and I with her. And that something _good _would be the result of our union."

And when he took a step back from her, his eyes full of sadness, she could breathe again, although her heart raced and the tears that never truly settled still stung at her eyes. "Tell me, Christine. Have I destroyed all hope for such a future? Because evidently I am rash and foolish… at least in matters that concern you."

The word _yes _flittered through her mind.

But even as she tried to form the word, to force it past her unwilling lips, she found herself shaking her head and muttering something else entirely.

"I don't know anymore. I truly don't know."

And not for the first time, she wondered if there was something deeply wrong with her that she would even consider such a thing.

But when she saw the hope in his eyes, the joyful smile at his lips as he allow his fingers to ever so briefly entwine about hers, she could not regret her answer.

Not now.

Especially not when he led her to the kitchen and put the kettle on, Boo twining about their feet as he mewed for his meal.

A piece of homey domesticity that began to settle some broken piece of her heart, if only for a moment.

* * *

Sooo... Looks like they had a pretty good talk, no? How many of you want her to keep her distance from him? And how many are ready for her to embrace him completely? Reviews have dwindled over the last few chapters, but as always, I would love to hear your thoughts!

Something pretty major on the horizon next chapter... So see you next week!


	23. Chapter 23

Thank you to those who sent me reminders about updating! They were tremendously helpful... especially since it slipped my mind yet again about updating today. I was all set to do it when I woke up, but then my cat (who gave me some terrible health scares the past six months) was having an off day so I was preoccupied with monitoring her. But she seems to be doing better, much to my relief! (And the relief of my pocketbook. Five days in a vet hospital? Ouch).

Anyway, Addmein, this is for you... you've been asking for this for about twenty chapters now, and I finally get to deliver :)

Onward!

* * *

XXIII

"I have a present for you," Erik greeted her as she emerged from her bedroom.

_The _bedroom.

Because it simply would not do to admit how comfortable she was becoming here, with the beautiful clothes, the luxurious bath, and the oh so comfortable bed that was christened by her mother's quilt.

It simply wouldn't do.

"Really?"

She didn't mean to sound wary, as none of his gifts had proven to be dreadful. Some of the notes had frightened her, and that was quite wretched of him, but he had given her lovely flowers and Boo, so she supposed it was reasonable to have a rising measure of excitement at the prospect.

He eyed her questioningly from his easy position in his leather armchair. "Yes, really. Why would I claim to have one only to disappoint you?"

Christine sighed. She had slept well, but the heat from the bath had made her languid and sluggish, and all she wanted now was a strong cup of tea to revive her.

But instead she found herself moving toward Erik and collapsing on the sofa with far less grace than she was aiming for.

He was still staring at her skeptically.

"I didn't mean it like that; it was just something to say. If you tell me that you got me a present, then I believe you." And in an attempt to change the mood from the suddenly sullen air, she added, "Did you bring me another kitten? I'm terribly fond of the first one, you know."

Erik hummed noncommittally, but instead of handing her a fuzzy new friend to fuss over, or even a wrapped package to open, he leaned toward the table beside him and poured her a cup of tea, handing it to her with only the slightest eye roll at her surprised expression.

"I have come to notice that you seem to be of a more cheerful disposition after you have completed this particular morning ritual."

His head tilted ever so slightly to the left. "Although with you it also seems to be an afternoon custom as well. Are you certain that you do not suffer from some kind of addiction?"

Christine scoffed and took a deep sip of the hot tea, immeasurably pleased that without her careful instruction he seemed to know the exact amount of cream and sugar for her liking.

But then, he did seem to want to please her however he could, so perhaps it was not such a strange thing after all.

He allowed her to sink back into the cushions of his remarkably plush couch and savor her tea and the quiet for a moment, only for the silence to be broken by Boo's sudden appearance.

Erik frowned as he sauntered closer, mewing all the while before he came close enough to attempt to use the fine arm of Erik's chair as a scratching post.

Only to be promptly scooped into Erik's arms before any damage could be inflicted, as Christine merely watched in amusement.

"And here I was about to apologize for not bringing you a gift as well, you ungrateful fellow," Erik murmured reproachfully.

But at hearing Boo's purr of contentment, settling against Erik's chest and blinking at her so very slowly, Christine couldn't help but laugh. "I think you gave him precisely what he wanted."

Erik sniffed but made no move to dislodge Boo from his new position, although he managed to sneak a hand behind one of the pillows and bring forth a plain rectangular box.

Christine couldn't remember the last time she was given an actual present.

And since the memory would likely only bring her pain to think of it, she made no attempt to do so.

She grabbed hold of it eagerly. It was fairly long but not very tall, and she gave it a quick shake to try to ascertain the nature of its contents without actually opening it.

Erik simply watched her, the smallest of smiles playing upon his lips. "I am told it is much more effective to open the lid," he teased.

She held the box a little more firmly and gave it another shake for good measure. "This isn't your gift anymore, it's mine, and I should get to decide how it's treated."

He raised a lone hand in a placating manner. "My apologies. I shall not intrude upon the process again."

Christine felt a little guilty at that, but he still seemed to be enjoying the process of gift giving so she raised her chin and gave a little sniff of her own, feeling more light and free than she had since… well, since she was brought here.

But maybe even longer than that.

And pushed away any guilt that what she felt was wrong. She wanted to enjoy today, regardless of the circumstances.

Christine placed her tea upon a coaster on the coffee table before turning her attention to the box resting on her lap.

She lifted the lid, wondering if it could be considered a proper present when it wasn't wrapped in paper, but decided as she rifled through the crisp white tissue that it did indeed.

And when she saw what Erik had gifted her, laughter, bright and genuine, bubbled forth.

"A gavel?"

She pulled out the polished mahogany mallet and a little wooden sound block, about to give it a strike before noticing Boo's quirked ears and thinking better of it.

"I realize now that I had ill-equipped you for your judgeship. I hope this will help to remedy my oversight."

Christine held the gavel carefully, testing how it felt in her hand as she tapped it lightly against her leg. It was heavier than she expected, and she supposed, in some strange way, it did fill her with some sense of authority—whether it was earned or not.

"Thank you, Erik. I like your gift very much."

He inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement, and she was left with the distinct impression that he was embarrassed by her praise.

Embarrassed, yet pleased all the same.

She took another sip of her tea, the meaning of the present reminding her of what the rest of the day would hold.

It was unreasonable to think they could delay the proceedings. While it was confirmed that Erik had ensnared a killer, she could not allow them to remain locked within the confines of a restroom simply because she felt disinclined to venture from Erik's comfortable abode.

Even though at this moment she didn't want to do anything but continue to enjoy her tea and Boo's company, and perhaps learn more of her mysterious captor that was beginning to feel less of a jailer with every passing day…

"I thought I would fix you a proper breakfast before we return to the defendants," Erik offered, his long fingers finding a particularly pleasant spot near Boo's ear if his rumbling purr was an accurate sign.

Christine sighed and leaned her head against the back of the sofa cushion. "What would you be doing if there wasn't a trial going on?"

It mildly disturbed her how easily she had come to accept this _trial, _no matter the unmitigated illegality of the venture.

He blinked at her, evidently surprised by her question.

Erik looked down at Boo thoughtfully, but apparently the kitten had suddenly noticed the box of enticing tissue for he hoped down from Erik's lap in favor of investigating thoroughly.

Christine removed her gavel and offered the box, smiling fondly as he pounced and dug at the wrappings.

Ever the welcome distraction, her Boo.

He still did not answer her query regarding his life before the trial… before _her, _instead staring down at Boo with the same rapt attention as her own.

"Should you like another?"

Christine hesitated. She wanted to blurt out an immediate _yes—_that she worried over leaving Boo alone and without a friend for company whenever she had to go out. But she could not deny that to double the amount of supplies required, all the litter and food and toys needed to make _two _kittens happy and well cared for…

It was a difficult prospect given her slim income.

Except…

She no longer had an income.

She didn't have much of anything anymore, except what Erik gave her.

And that thought left her feeling rather despondent.

Christine watched as Boo nestled amongst his vanquished tissue, his long tail curling about his small body as he blinked mildly at the other, taller creatures in the room.

And she found herself being honest with him.

"Selfishly I would. I worry for him when he's all by himself, and maybe if he had a companion he wouldn't get lonesome. But it's a stretch for me to afford him by myself and to have another one to provide for…" she gave a little shrug. "And it's not like I have a job anymore, so I'm not sure what I'll do anyway."

Christine didn't even need to glance upward to know that he was frowning at her. Perhaps he was even scowling; such was the force of his gaze, even as she kept her gaze resolutely on Boo.

But maybe just a peek, just to ensure she hadn't angered him _too _much…

He took a sip from his own tea cup, and she tried to hide her cringe as she saw that he took no cream with the strong black brew.

"You would still like to leave, then?"

She picked at her sleeve, not expecting his calm demeanor. Somehow it made it worse to admit that she resented her lack of freedom. If he could only be horrid—frighten her with chains and lascivious comments, it would be so _easy _to hurt him.

But instead he was sweet and made tea and fetched her treasured heirlooms to make the beautiful room he had given her all the more inviting.

And offered to make her breakfast.

Mustn't forget the breakfast.

She groaned. "Why must this be so hard?"

Erik returned his delicate china cup to its saucer and placed it upon the side table. "It needn't be. I suppose from your perspective I can… understand your reticence. I am… well aware that I would be a burden upon any woman regardless of monetary or material offerings."

Christine blinked at him.

"That… you shouldn't say things like that. It isn't true."

He chuckled incredulously. "Is it not? I am perfectly aware of my sins, Christine, and they are many. Not the least of which requires me to wear this mask."

That she could not allow. Not when that was the absolute farthest thing from what troubled her about their strange… relationship. Was that even the proper word? Most people chose their friendships. Perhaps some were more compulsory than others, built on mutual need or familial obligation. But still… she supposed in the most literal sense, they did have a relationship.

Erik and her.

Together.

Her stomach gave a funny flutter at the thought.

Only to push away such thoughts and return her attention to Erik's preposterous statement.

"You stripped me of my choice, Erik! My freedom! I could not care less about your appearance. In fact, I do not fully understand why you think it's necessary to cover it!"

This time his stare was incredulous. "You cannot be serious," he answered drolly.

She crossed her arms and tried not to look _too _petulant. "Perfectly so," she answered, attempting to match his tone in kind.

And to her very great surprise, Erik slipped his mask away from his features, leaving his face bare for her to study.

Yet she could not seem to look away from his eyes, frantic and searching and so very angry as they stared at her.

"Well? Is it as you remembered?" His tone was biting and sarcastic, and she wanted it to smooth, to gentle, in that wonderful way that only he seemed to be able to manage…

She swallowed, and took a moment to re-familiarize herself with his appearance.

His skin was thin and yellowy, the planes of his face tight and harsh, with little cartilage to counter the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

It was clear he expected her to flinch away—to be filled with horror as she centered her ridicule upon the unfortunate defect of his birth rather than his less than questionable actions that she simply could not condone.

But instead she felt a stirring, perhaps pity, perhaps compassion.

Or perhaps something altogether different.

His eyes revealed more than he could know, as he watched and sneered, his posture taut and strained as he waited for her to react.

What would it have been like to grow up with such a face? Not to be petted and smiled at for being such a sweet looking child, with bright eyes and pretty features, a reminder of youthful innocence that was so appealing for adults to admire.

She did not know from where her courage came as she moved forward, perching on the arm of his chair as she leaned closer, her fingers soft and hesitant as she reached for him.

Only for him to lurch backward, his eyes wild and full of suspicion.

She hushed him softly and tried again, her thumb feather-light as she stroked the harsh cheekbone, the thin lips, the paper texture of his flesh. "I'm so sorry that this hurts you."

His brow furrowed, and this time his voice was little more than a croak—a strange sound coming from him. "It does not hurt."

Christine smiled at him sadly, her pointer finger smoothing the line that had formed from his confusion, finding that she liked the openness of his expressions now that she was free to look upon them.

"Oh, I think it does. I think it hurts you very badly. That you have been hurt for it and by it, and you by no means deserved to be treated like that. And for that I am dreadfully sorry."

Erik released a shuddering breath, and to her dismay her thumb caught one of his tears as he stared at her, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

Yet in the next breath she was being pulled into his arms, his face buried in her hair as his shoulders heaved and shuddered.

But he made no sound as he wept. And even though she was stiff and awkward, unsure of what to do when her kidnapper suddenly clung to her as if he could find absolution from her embrace alone, she finally allowed her arms to reach around him, her hands smoothing the silky strands of his hair as she fought down the lump in her own throat.

"It's going to be all right, Erik," she murmured, the assurance for herself or for him she could not tell.

He pushed away abruptly. "How can it be? When you admit that you want to be free of me—that you would leave me here alone where no one will ever smile at me. No one would remember or think well of poor, unhappy Erik as he withers and finally simply…"

Not remember him?

As if such a thing was possible.

As if she would _want _it to be possible.

She pushed past her own tears, the desire to be comforted as she tried to soothe a man's obviously tormented soul, repeating the question that he so resolutely avoided. "What would you be doing today, before all this started?"

And this time his hands left her completely, no longer clutching and reaching and finding, but clasped firmly, seemingly to keep them from trembling.

"_Nothing._"

She frowned. "You can't have done _nothing_. Everyone does something! Did you read or… perhaps you wrote all those lovely pieces I saw scattered around your music room?"

He glanced away from her. "I used to. There was such solace to be had in my music. But eventually even that can seem lonely and cold when still there is none… not a single entity in the whole of this world that thinks well of you."

Christine briefly considered reminding him that his actions could just as easily have frightened away any potential friendships. His willingness to kidnap, to hold captive, to so seamlessly coax confessions from those same victims, all related to a skill set far beyond a lonesome musician who whiled away his days beneath one of the country's grandest theatres.

But she would not pretend to understand him. She could feel his longing and despair. It exuded from him as thoroughly as his voice sent shivers down her spine, and that was at least something that was within her knowledge.

To feel so completely alone even when acquaintances offered to go for drinks after work.

She had not been ready for friendships, for the meaningful interactions that opened oneself to heartache and loss, so she spurned them with a polite smile and a suggestion of _maybe another day, _hoping that she wasn't lying.

That at some point her fear would dissipate and she would willingly and joyfully form those bonds that seemed so natural to everyone but her.

But one glance at Erik made it abundantly clear that he had no such offers. That he was the product of scorn and ridicule so intense that he had fled to the bowels of the earth rather than face such treatment again.

Until even his escape, the very sanctuary he had created, no longer held the sweet promise of blessed solitude, and became as much a prison as the stares and taunts he must have suffered above.

The arm of his chair was not the most comfortable place to settle, but she couldn't bring herself to move away from him. Not when he seemed so tense, his shoulders tight and rigid, his face so exposed and vulnerable.

"I want you to know that, even if I don't… live here with you at some point in future," that seemed a kinder way to mention her release, although even now she felt a strange clenching in her belly as she thought of leaving, "I would never forget you. Never ever."

He snorted at that. "Yes, you will remember the monster who held you captive. The one who dragged you up to the surface, like a gopher seeking a moment in the sun, where he showed you of what he was truly capable."

"You haven't hurt them," she reminded him weakly.

Or was she reminding herself?

She couldn't tell anymore.

He chuckled at that, a humorless sound that made her shiver, and not in the delightful way he had made her before. "Oh, but how I've wanted to. They who stayed silent when a man was incarcerated in their stead. But then to them I am not a man, am I? I am a ghost, beneath anyone's care or notice, until finally I have _made _them care!"

She flinched as his voice rose, and immediately he quieted, running a long finger against her sleeve at the wrist. "Forgive me," he pleaded, reaching to return his mask.

And maybe with it, his candor.

She stopped him with a gentle hand upon his arm. "Wait," she murmured. "Just… wait. I want to understand you, truly I do, and it… helps when I can really see you."

Erik appeared conflicted, his eyes flitting between the supple material of his mask and her face, searching for… something.

But he must have found the reassurance he needed for with a hesitant nod, he relented.

"You are too good, Christine. Far too good for the likes of me."

She smiled thinly. "I don't know about that, Erik. I just… I'd like to help you, if I can."

He grimaced. "You pity me," he remarked, his distaste at the idea obvious.

Christine sighed. "You say that as if it was a bad thing."

Erik scoffed. "And it is not? You feel sorry for a pitiful creature. And because you're good and kind you want to give it a scrap of affection. But that does not mean that you will ever look at me and see…" his voice trailed off and he gave a little shrug, his eyes no longer searching hers as he studied the floor.

Christine hesitated. It was the unspoken truth of his desire for her. That he did not simply want her to be a companion down here in the dark recesses of his home, but perhaps wanted something more—something that should worry and disgust her.

Only the want for another person was not so very unnatural, was it?

"How do you want me to see you?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer.

And this time when he looked at her, there was no mistaking the misery in his expression. "As a man. As a man you could maybe, someday, come to… care for."

To _love._

He did not say it, but she heard it echo through her mind regardless, and knew it to be true.

"Erik, I started caring for you the first day of the trial. The _real _trial. If that was all that you wanted, you have it already, making all of this completely unnecessary."

His lips thinned. "That is not the same."

She reached out again, slowing her movements as he flinched, before once again resting her fingers against his cheek. "Then tell me what you want. What you really want."

His eyes, his colorless eyes looked at her so hopelessly that she nearly withdrew her command, but something kept her from doing so.

Instead, she waited.

And eventually Erik moaned and stood, leaving her to stare and watch as he paced about the room, his agitation obvious.

"I want _you_! However you will have me!"

"There is more than that," she pressed, shifting slightly so she was seated in his newly vacated chair, surprised by how warm the leather felt despite Erik's cool temperature.

Erik turned and his gaze was almost a glare, tempered only by his oh so tangible fear.

And yet she could offer him no relief. Not in this.

Because she needed to know, to hear the words spoken.

To understand.

Even more than she needed to know the circumstances of Mr. Poligny's death, she wanted to at last comprehend the motives of the man before her.

Erik moved to the bookcases and for a moment she feared he would leave her, but instead he grasped at the shelf and leaned his forehead against it, and she allowed him time for composure.

Perhaps it was unfair to press him so.

Already he had suffered so much.

But then he turned, tears wetting his cheeks and causing her heart to ache at the sight of them, his voice low and weak as he poured out the secret desires of his soul, laying them open for her perusal. For her mockery.

As if she would ever be capable of such a thing.

"I only wanted to be loved. To have a wife to call my own—who would be willing to call me husband. Who would smile at me fondly, would take her tea with me, as we read and sang. She would sleep far too much, but would look so peaceful and angelic while doing so that I would never dream of wakening her. She would love the stray kittens of the world that I could not bear to leave behind; would welcome them as she had welcomed me. And maybe she would even like to go for drives on Sundays."

He shrugged again, that same little lift of his shoulders, as if his perfectly reasonable desires should be so easily dismissed. "And I'd hoped that maybe that could have been with you."

She hadn't realized she had started to cry until he was coming forward with a proffered handkerchief. And through her tears she had to laugh at how perfectly gentlemanly he was—how old fashioned in both his manner and his deepest wants.

He hadn't forced her. Hadn't even broached the subject of anything beyond in terms of their relationship.

They were two broken souls—eager to be loved, to be needed, to be _wanted, _yet also so desperately afraid. And whether that fear was of loss or rejection, it was always there, tainting and polluting until they were stunted by inaction. Yet Erik had mustered his courage. And though the way he had sought to mend his loneliness was extreme, turning to sedatives and kidnapping and all that could have been dark and horrible…

With him it wasn't.

It meant cups of sweetened tea and cozy fires, and the promise of love and acceptance, if only she would allow it.

So when she stood and wrapped her arms about his torso—how thin he truly was!—she pushed away all doubt, all her frettings that what she felt wasn't normal, and simply… was.

"Thank you for being honest with me, Erik," she mumbled into his crisp lapel.

It didn't matter that he seemed too stunned to hold her in return.

All that mattered was that in this moment, she could picture the life he had described.

And thought that it was good.

* * *

Sooo... they hugged! And talking! And Erik cried, and all was right with the world, right?

For those of you who were hoping for some progress on their relationship front, I hope you enjoyed it! And for those who are wanting her to remember that he is her kidnapper, please take heart that I have not forgotten that particular aspect of their relationship, and this does not mean automatic sunshine and roses. But Christine needs comfort too, and she'll be getting her chance to make some pretty big choices... don't you worry.

I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please review!


	24. Chapter 24

I seem to be the source of many tears after last chapter, but I will not accept full blame for this! If our dear Erik was not such a tragic figure and all of us just such softies for him, things wouldn't have been so bad! Right? *sniffs*

And I hope that everyone had a lovely Valentines, whether you have a significant other or not :)

Now, onward!

XXIV

Christine didn't know how long it was that she clutched at Erik, and would likely have pulled away much sooner if she had not eventually felt the tentative fingers, the timid arms that encircled her. That held her just as she held him.

"You must be hungry," he remarked eventually, his voice tight and strained.

She was. Most assuredly so. But she hadn't realized how she had missed this—this simple act of human contact, of giving a hug and appreciating its reciprocation. It was a common thing with her papa, a way of greeting and of leaving, as well as simple affections born simply of fondness.

And yet…

Somehow it felt wrong to compare the two. Erik was her friend, and if he had his way, would someday be more, and while her feelings toward him were still confusing, she knew with absolute certainty that there was nothing familial about it.

She stepped backward, feeling strangely bereft when they were no longer touching.

Erik turned away from her, and she watched him discreetly wipe at his eyes with yet another handkerchief, this one crisp and black, as he struggled with his composure.

Her poor Erik.

Because she was coming to realize, whether or not she had meant to do so, that one simple smile in the courtroom had bound this unhappy man to her. And that was not at all the burden she had thought it would be.

She approached him quietly and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Are you all right?" she murmured softly.

He cleared his throat and the handkerchief vanished into some hidden pocket, and despite the redness about his sunken eyes, he looked much more himself. "You do not… you cannot know what your… care… means to me, Christine."

She smiled grimly. "I haven't had anyone to hold me for a long time either. I'd forgotten how nice it is. How important."

Erik scoffed but immediately appeared stricken at her hurt expression. "Oh, forgive me, my sweet. I do not wish to diminish your pains. I only meant that I… I have never had someone to hold me. It is a very new experience and I…" He looked at her sheepishly. "I like it very much."

She didn't know why she blushed at that. They hadn't kissed, they most certainly hadn't been _intimate_—at least not in any physical way. But in the manner Erik had used the word, in sharing and accepting and _knowing_…

They had been very intimate. Very intimate indeed.

And she liked it, yet that did not trouble her as much as it used to.

The sound of rustling tissue drew both of their attentions, Boo apparently having spent the entirety of his persons' exchange resting comfortably in his nest of crinkled paper, but now deciding that Erik's leather chair was a much more desirable spot.

And when Christine saw Erik's look of consternation as Boo very carefully positioned himself against the arm, blinking at them in ever increasing tiredness, she couldn't help but laugh.

"Stop your glaring and let him be. If he's sleeping he's not clawing."

Erik sniffed and before she had even noticed he had done so, felt his hand encircling hers, leather against skin, as he led her to the kitchen.

-X-

"You cannot be serious," Erik informed her, not for the first time.

Christine sighed and tore off part of the crispy crust of her chosen breakfast. "I like toast," she answered simply.

He frowned. "I offer to make you anything, anything in the world, and still you insist upon something so… common."

Christine rolled her eyes at that. "Common perhaps, but no less delicious."

Yet he continued to look at it with such displeasure, and she wondered if she'd hurt him somehow by picking something so simple. "I told you, I'm not one for large breakfasts! However," she added in compromise, "if you want to make me some fabulous dinner… I don't think I'd object."

He brightened slightly at that. "Dinner," he mused, and already she could see his mind flipping through recipes as he tried to pick which one would please her most.

How things had changed in so short a time.

She looked down at her toast, still delicious and wonderful regardless of his objection to it, but now there was a lump in her throat as she looked at it.

Did she eat it because she truly loved it, or simply because she was used to it?

"I couldn't afford much," she confessed, picking off another piece and popping it in her mouth, trying valiantly to keep the crumbs from covering the table. "So I just… bread and peanut butter and jam…" She gave a little shrug. "It's filling and tasty and I guess I'm used to it."

Erik scowled, but it did not seem to be directed at her. He had yet to retrieve his mask, and she wondered if it was on purpose or if he'd merely forgotten about it.

She decided that she much preferred to see his face, unfortunate though it might be.

Because it was a part of him, and if she was to understand him, it was important that she be reminded of what had driven him to the outskirts of the world.

"I wish for you to be cared for properly. Not to know hunger or cold or pain. I think that even… even if you reject me entirely, I would still ensure that you were well provided for."

She pushed her toast away and took a deep breath. She'd have it again to be sure, but for now… maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let him take care of her.

At least for a while.

And to embrace this morning ritual that had so long ago been dearly loved, but this time, to do so with him.

"Maybe some eggs then."

His answering smile was more than she could bear, and as she sat on the counter and watched him prepare her breakfast, she reveled in each surreptitious glance sent her way, as if he was simply ensuring she was there and pleased with him.

And if all that it took to make him happy was providing her with filling, healthful meals, who was she to complain?

The omelet he created for her was delicious, but with each bite she began to remember that there were three individuals locked away upstairs that would also require nourishment. But still she had that niggling desire just to be, to push away that unpleasantness until all that remained was good food and sweet company, and a mutual love for a little Boo that had yet to vacate Erik's chair.

Christine wondered when she had become such a sap.

Erik ate nothing, something she would question at some point, but not now. Not when every forkful of perfectly cooked eggs melted with the lightest of cheese, bits of salty ham providing a wonderful counterpoint to the mildness of the rest.

He watched her carefully, something she was growing used to, although it made her all the more determined to convince him to join her for meals. The mask would have been troublesome to eat with, that much was certain, but if he was willing to forego it…

She thought he would make a delightful dinner companion.

From the way he showed her about his home, it was clear that he was more involved in its construction than simply hiring a clever architect. There was a glimmer of pride as he demonstrated the way the lights functioned, the hidden panel where she could raise or lower the ambient temperature, the hidden toaster that according to him she utilized far too frequently.

The mere fact that he _had _a home beneath one of the grandest structures in their fair city was a testament to his creative genius. And while he would likely end up intimidating her with his intellect, she would still like to know him better.

Erik shifted in his chair and she realized rather belatedly that she had been staring at him, and tried to hide her smirk at his discomfort. Perhaps it was good that he come to recognize how uncomfortable it could be.

Only to then feel immeasurably guilty. For he had much better reason to feel self-conscious than she.

She looked down at the eggs at her plate, taking another bite, savoring it a little less this time as her feelings corrupted an otherwise delicious omelet.

"We can ignore them, if you would prefer," Erik suggested abruptly.

"Ignore who?"

He made a vague gesture toward the ceiling, and she presumed he was referring to the captives upstairs. And the guilt niggled further as her heart leapt at the prospect of forgetting that entire business.

"We can't," she murmured softly, more a reminder to herself than to him.

Erik leaned forward in his chair, his eyes bright and furtive. "But we can! I was… Perhaps this trial was unnecessary. If I had thought, had ever dreamed that you could think well of me without them, I would not have brought them!"

Christine swallowed thickly and set down her fork. "Erik," she began slowly, too conflicted to form any quick response. He waited patiently, his eyes never leaving hers, almost as if he truly _cared _what her thoughts and words would be.

It was a strange thing, to be so listened to.

For her opinions to be valued.

She released a ridiculous giggle. At least, her opinions mattered as long as they did not include returning to her apartment and refusing to see him.

Erik grew alarmed and she forced down the rest of her embarrassing laughter. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me."

He eyed her shrewdly. "Perhaps your predilection for peanut butter and dried bread hid a chemical imbalance in your brain. Obviously my reasoning that you should consume more protein was flawed."

He said this with such perfect solemnity that she started laughing anew, and she was absolutely certain that only further confirmed to him that she was suffering from some malady. Yet she couldn't bring herself to care, not when she was full of delicious food and tea that was lovingly prepared, and she had been hugged today, not once, but twice and she was…

Happy.

Strange and absurd though it might have been, it was undeniable.

And it left her feeling carefree and perhaps a bit reckless, but still, she knew how she wished to spend the rest of her day.

There would be time yet for her to convince him they needed to take a walk in the fresh snow. To test the limits of his care for her as well as his tenuous trust as she convinced him that the world above was not solely filled with darkness and pain.

But for now, she had something else in mind.

"Erik," she started again, smothering the last of her giggles with her hand. "You gave me a present today, and it would be terribly rude of you to take away my opportunity to use it. I've been overseeing this case now for quite some time, and I don't know about you, but I'd like to know the truth now."

He still eyed her skeptically. "You do not know enough of it? You know that I did not murder Poligny, and that is all I wanted."

She gave him a dubious look. "Really? You mean some part of you didn't want to do this for you? For you to remind them of what they put you through with their lies and deceit?"

Erik sniffed, and he tried for indignant, but still he seemed wary. Of her? Of her reaction to him?

"And if I did?"

Christine took a deep breath, warring with herself. Right or wrong, she couldn't say that she no longer understood why Erik acted the way he did. Not anymore.

"I would say," she started haltingly, still gathering her thoughts that even now felt only half formed. "I'd say that you were mistreated. Horribly so. And that you're right to be angry. But," she added firmly. "That doesn't mean that you get to hurt them!"

Did she misread his expression, or did he seem to pout slightly at her pronouncement?

"Come now, Erik," she tried again, her tone lowering into a tease. "Surely a brilliant man like you can come up with a better way to deal with them."

And this time when his eyes gleamed and a smirk grew upon his lips, she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with fear.

-X-

This time when Erik left her in the theatre as he travelled below to retrieve his defendants, Christine did not do any wandering. She made a very great show of selecting a comfortable seat, and solemnly declared that she would be in that precise spot when next he returned.

He seemed doubtful, but left her willingly enough.

It was still disconcerting being there all alone, the long shadows and utter silence oppressive as she sat. So to keep herself from growing agitated, and possibly reneging on her word as she sought the comfort of a window, she tried to imagine sitting in this same seat, only during a production.

There would be the hum of people as they sat about her, reveling in the same sights and sounds of musical art at its finest. The vibrant costumes, agonizingly cared for and stitched so as to present a seamless fantasy for the audience. A believable representation of a world now fallen away. The ecstasy of a perfectly sung aria, the soprano's voice perfectly mingling with the orchestra below until the audience could think of nothing, could remember nothing beyond the diva before them.

And she wanted it.

Not to _be _that performer, but to experience the unique thrill that came from witnessing a production in person.

Her papa had always teased that she was meant for the stage. It had been a dream of theirs, a happy daydream where he would play and she would sing, all to the enjoyment and praise of a full audience.

She couldn't actually picture herself performing. It was one thing to sing in front of diners as they busied themselves with food and drink. But to take the stage, to be their sole focus as she tried desperately to remember her technique…

She would much rather have an excuse to get dolled up in a pretty dress and sit in the audience, appreciating the music without the added pressures of performing.

And hoped that her papa would have understood that she couldn't dream like that anymore. Not after everything that happened.

"Ah, you are still here! And yet I was quite prepared to begin mustering the search parties," Erik teased, appearing from the darkened recesses of back stage.

Christine smiled thinly, fingering the gavel and the little round sound block carefully tucked away within her pocket as she tried to push away her sudden melancholy. "Sorry to disappoint. I can make a run for it if you'd like."

He had donned his mask once again before they departed, but his frown was still readily evident. "I would happily go the rest of my days without such a view."

A lump formed in her throat as she regarded him, so perfectly serious in his regard for her. How was it possible that no one else had noticed how sweet this man was?

He disappeared into the dark again, and she stood up and made her way onto the stage, finding him over by the many levers that controlled the numerous panels of the floor.

Christine held out her hand and stopped him from pulling it, not yet ready for them to have an audience.

Erik looked at her questioningly, and she tried to gather her thoughts so she could make her feelings clear.

"Erik I… I want you to know that I'm…" She huffed, wishing that words were not so difficult, that she could simply _say _what she meant and that he would understand. But this was important, and she was nervous, and they seemed stuck in the recesses of her mind, completely unwilling to be helpful.

He looked down at her hand resting upon his arm, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips. "Yes, Christine?" he prompted.

She sighed. "You'll probably think it's stupid."

His eyes flickered back to hers. "Are you going to suggest again that I would knowingly leave you in a dark and frightening place? That I would wish for you to be hurt and scared and knowing that I would do nothing?"

Her eyes widened. She knew she had asked him that—if she had fallen behind on their journey above if he would leave her there, but it hadn't occurred to her that she had somehow wounded him by asking.

"Erik, no, not at all."

He gave a little shrug. "Then I would not think it stupid."

She smiled softly at that, his nonchalance and simplistic acceptance of things becoming an endearing quality. "I just wanted to say that I think you're very sweet and I'm sorry that no one ever noticed it before."

He stiffened. "You think Erik is… sweet?"

She frowned at him, not all sure why such an assessment would be met with offense. "Yes?" she answered hesitantly.

"Like a puppy? Or some small animal that must be pitied and cared for?"

Christine couldn't help it. She rolled her eyes and tugged at his hand until she held it within her own, and she briefly wondered what his skin there felt like, as it always seemed to be encased in a leather glove.

"No, you silly man! As in, I think you have a gentle soul and a caring heart and… and… those are very nice things for you to have!"

He blinked at her, and gave her that stare she was rapidly coming to recognize as the one where he questioned her sanity. But she stood by what she said, and no matter how he looked at her, she wasn't going to take it back.

She startled slightly when she felt his thumb gently smoothing over the back of her hand, and it was only then that she noticed how his expression had softened. "I will not say that I agree with your assessment, but I am… gratified to know that you think well of me."

Christine gave his hand a squeeze. "However, you probably shouldn't find it so insulting to be compared to a small and pitiful creature. I do tend to love them, you know."

He gave her an exasperated look and she chuckled. "Just a suggestion, no need to get snippy."

Erik sniffed and pulled one of the levers, and this time she was prepared for the floor to open as the gears creaked and hummed as they worked to bring the defendants up for trial.

She made to move closer, but Erik held fast to her hand until she turned back to face him. "I would gladly accept whatever love you could offer me. Any scrap of your affection is far more than I deserve. Not after what I've done to you."

Christine took a step nearer, and brought her other hand up to stroke his covered cheek ever so softly. "You're right. The things you've done _to _me would lead me to hate you. To fear you. To want nothing more than to escape from you."

Erik cringed.

"But the things you've done _for _me?" His eyes gave a gentle glow in the dim light, golden and beautiful in their way. "What someone deserves is a funny thing, something I would never presume to know. But what I feel…" she brushed her thumb against the small bit of visible flesh by his eye. "I feel that you should have far more than a scrap of affection for how kind and attentive you have been."

The stage settled with a mild thud, reminding them both that they were no longer alone. But before she could pull away, Erik grasped the hand that caressed his cheek, placing an unpracticed kiss against her palm. "I do not deserve you," he reiterated, and she tried to catch her breath at the strange way her heart sped and her stomach flipped at his action.

"I… we should…"

He nodded and flipped a few more levers, spotlights from above providing ample illumination as Christine's chair also appeared from the mystical world below the stage.

All three figures appeared exhausted, heavy circles under their eyes as they warily watched Erik and Christine approach.

"Good day, everyone," Erik announced cheerily, although the undercurrent of mockery was still readily apparent. "I would apologize for our late beginning, but, well, let me simply say that I will never regret the events of this morning."

Christine blushed and occupied herself by pulling out her new gavel, only to glance upward at the feeling of being watched. The second man, the one not yet given opportunity to speak, was staring at her intently.

Until Erik stepped between them, this time his voice reproachful. "It's rude to stare, Daroga," he chastised firmly.

The man merely glared in response.

"Now, since I have given you all ample time to consider your cooperation in this matter, let us hope that our trial can reach completion today, yes? I do not know about any of you, but I think the idea of trying to sleep on a bathroom floor to be rather distasteful. I should wish to avoid it if at all possible. Besides," he added, this time moving slightly so he could give her a tenuous smile. "I should rather like to move past this horrible business, and on to more pleasant things."

Christine offered a little smile of her own.

The defendant's gags prevented any verbal confirmation, but they all watched with mixtures of hostility and resignation as Erik escorted Christine to her seat. She noted with some appreciation that it wasn't so high and lofty today, but was at a far more comfortable level that still offered her an excellent view of their mock court.

"Christine," Erik murmured lowly, his voice so warm and affectionate that it sent a pleasant tremor through her heart. "Should you care to do the honors?"

All thought temporarily left her head as she tried to settle the feelings he elicited in her and instead focus on his words. "Honors?"

He glanced pointedly at her gavel and she straightened. "Oh!"

She cleared her throat and gave it a perhaps too enthusiastic whack, the sound echoing through the vacant theatre. "Court is now in session," she announced primly. "Erik, would you care to see if Mr. Debienne has anything more to say?"

Erik's smirk was devious and altogether pleased, and somehow it pleased her in turn to have been the cause of it.

"Certainly, my dear," he intoned before going behind Mr. Debienne and undoing his gag with exacting fingers before once again stuffing the fabric into the man's front pocket.

"Well, Claude? Have you anything you would like to confess?" Erik's voice lowered into a dangerous caress. "Or shall I have to become more _creative _with my inducements?"

And as his eyes widened in fear at Erik's perfectly legitimate threat, Christine dearly hoped that he would simply tell them all that he knew.

Sooo... Looks like Christine is still very conflicted about her feelings for Erik, but there's no point in denying their existence anymore! And I know a lot of you would like to just forget about the hostages and stick with the Erik and Christine romantics, but I promise I'm not going to drag things out unnecessarily. There will be plenty more moments for them very soon, especially since Christine is now getting the hang of this judgeship business! So please just stick with me.


	25. Chapter 25

Happy Saturday! I've been in a bit of a funk today... I blame the sudden return of dreary weather. Or that this chapter wouldn't upload. Or maybe it's that I got a review on Amazon saying that I have a, "Strange, confusing writing style." *shrugs* Regardless, it's always wonderful to come back here where you guys are kind and encouraging!

Anyway, who's ready for some real answers? I think I am!

Onward!

* * *

XXV

The man appeared to slump against his bonds, tired and worn even as he stared at Erik. "What more can you want from me? I already told you what I've done. I _killed _him. Keeping all of us locked up forever isn't going to change that!"

Erik hummed softly. "No, perhaps not, given that I believe you on that front. But you cannot honestly expect me to believe that the matter is closed—that you have told me _all _of what happened in this entire messy business."

Mr. Debienne's eyes shuttered. "You know the important things."

Erik scoffed. "Do I? Tell me, was it your idea then that the murder should be pinned on me? Just another happening for the illustrious Opera Ghost, was it?"

He shook his head. "You tried to kill Buquet. You probably did succeed with others! Why was it such a terrible thing to bring you to justice with a case that could actually incarcerate you? You cannot stand there and tell me that you are not a murderer!"

Christine waited for the denials. The angered affront or wave of his elegant hands as he dismissed the charge. But instead he grew quiet, leaning forward ever so slightly as he stared at the man before him. "I am not the one who is going to absolve my conscience through this trial. _You _are, Debienne. And causing our sweet judge to question my character is not going to bode well for you."

Mr. Debienne shot her a harried glance, and as Christine stared back…she realized that Erik hadn't denied it at all.

Her breath quickened and suddenly…

She didn't want to play anymore.

She nearly stood, walked through the large doors to wait in the lobby once more, knowing perfectly well that he would follow her. She could berate him there in private, for tricking her, for practically _seducing _her, perhaps not in body but very much so in mind.

Except…

She forced herself to take a deep breath, pushing away her call to rashness. Erik had a past, of that she was certain. It would not be pleasant, it would not be filled with delightful breakfasts and loving embraces, but hurts and pain and despair the likes of which she could only imagine.

And perhaps in the midst of that, death had also reached him, whether by his will or by his design.

But at the very least she could give him the benefit of listening.

Of trying to understand.

But they most certainly would betalking about this.

She settled back into her chair, feeling the need to embrace the role she had found so exciting just a moment before. "Yes, Mr. Debienne," she added in her best mimicry of Erik's own droll intonation. "Do be so kind as to simply enlighten us as to the circumstances surrounding _this _case. Unless Erik's past dealings somehow coincide with your own admitted murder, it isn't relevant." She toyed with her gavel delicately, the perfect picture of disillusioned judgeship. Or at least she hoped so. "And if you don't cooperate I will be forced to charge you with contempt! And that will just prolong everything, and I'm quite ready to know the truth! So do not try my patience!"

Unlike the fear that Erik seemed to inspire in these defendants, Christine gathered three incredulous stares as they regarded her, and it took every bit of will not to shift uncomfortably from their looks.

Erik however was smirking at her, not in mockery, but in… appreciation?

It made her stomach give that funny flip again.

She couldn't feel that way about a genuinely evil man, could she?

But he wasn't evil. Of that at least she was absolutely sure. She had come to that conclusion some time ago, when first she saw him tend to Boo with the utmost care, and the way he treated her afterward…

He wasn't a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever other _paths _got bandied about when discussing murderous tendencies—assuming of course that it was true he had such things. He felt. He cared. He… he _loved._ Perhaps not in conventional ways. But almost more deeply, more reverently, as if the emotions were all the more pure and precious because they had been deeply and cruelly honed through a lack of reciprocity.

"Well?" Erik questioned. "Are you going to heed our judge's warnings, or are you going to continue to glare at me so effectively?"

Mr. Debienne rolled his eyes, but his attention remained directed at Christine. "I still don't understand how you can censure _me_ when you're complying with this man!" He tilted his chin pointedly at Erik, and even as she looked at him, Christine already knew the simple explanation for it.

"Because he was truthful with me, Mr. Debienne. He has been since I came here. But you've tried to hide your shame with lies and injustice, and I can't just ignore that."

Debienne grunted. "And you think this was justice done? That I be held captive?"

Christine's lips thinned. "I think that when you are convicted, your cell would have a similar lack of luxuries. And here at least you do not have to fear other inmates."

This time Erik gave a grimace and once more Christine felt for the poor man. She did not know much about the justice system, of the differences between a prison and a jail meant for housing defendants while they awaited trial, but still she knew that he suffered. That people were cruel and he was not even allowed to cover his face in order to stem any more abuses.

At least Mr. Debienne was on the handsome side. Although perhaps in prison that was not such a good thing either.

"Did anyone help you with this scheme, Mr. Debienne," she pressed, her eyes flickering to Ms. Poligny and her steady glare at the man beside her. "Did she have a hand in her husband's death?"

"I pulled the trigger," he repeated firmly. "I held the gun to his head and fired. I felt his blood on my face and hands and even in my _mouth _as his brain quite literally exploded."

Christine tried to keep from picturing it. Those were nightmares she would gladly never suffer.

"That isn't what I asked," she reminded him, trying to keep her voice from shaking. Erik gave her a concerned look, and she could only offer a weak smile in response.

"Have you ever broken a promise?" he asked her, still dismissing her actual enquiry.

She hesitated, wanting to say _no._ That would require having someone to make promises _to_, something she was sorely lacking in. But she remembered how she had vowed to remain where she was the day before, only to drift into the lobby and much to the detriment of Erik's fears and fragile trust.

"We should keep to our word," she confirmed. "But that does not make your actions all right. It won't make you an honorable man to keep silent."

"No, it certainly won't. But at least it won't further my sins either by betraying a confidence."

Erik huffed out a humorless laugh. "How noble of you. But your cooperation is not wholly required. Not when our other party is seated right beside you." He reached into Mr. Debienne's pocket and retrieved the gag, only to stop before returning it. "But perhaps it would be helpful if you both could speak. Erik turned to Ms. Poligny. "Surely you would like to speak to him, would you not, madam? The dear friend of your late husband?"

Her glare was fierce and mutinous as Erik removed her own gag.

"You've had your confession," she spat. "Why isn't that enough?"

"_Because_,_" _Erik practically hissed, the first remnants of his rage at what had been done to him coming to the surface. "I had much time to ponder those blasted events while awaiting _your _trial. Time I could have spent free and with my dignity intact! And while I am quite sure that this man did precisely as he said, by no means do I believe he acted alone. For the majority of his life he has had a partner. Someone to help him think, help him to act. And this, this most risky venture of his life he decides to attempt alone?" Erik chuckled darkly. "I think not. So, what I want from you, madam, is for you to _confess._"

"Never!" she spat, her face twisted into an ugly scowl.

"Jennifer," Mr. Debienne murmured, his eyes flitting between Erik and the woman. "Maybe it would be best. He's just going to keep us longer until we…"

"Shut up!" she screeched. "There is no _we._ You said it yourself. You pulled the trigger. You killed your dearest friend because he wouldn't listen to you about selling the theatre. That rests solely on your shoulders so I don't know why everyone keeps dragging me into it!"

"Madam," Erik purred, his voice turning to silk. "You are not leaving this place until you tell me what you have done. Until those words leave your lips. Until you convince me that you have told the court every part of your schemes."

"I…"

"You want to go home, do you not?"

"Jennifer, for pity's sake, just _tell _him!"

"You do not want to spend yet another night locked away in the dark. Scrambling about in the blackness as you try to find water and use the facilities…"

"Jen, please, I want to leave here. This wasn't worth it. None of this was worth it."

Christine watched as her resolute expression seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a frantic appearance as she shook her head furiously, almost as if trying to shut out the voices swirling about her. "Stop it! Both of you, please!" She looked over at Mr. Debienne. "You think he'll let us go home? If I tell him everything, that we'll just leave this place and be free? You're a fool for thinking it! The only reason we're still alive is because I haven't talked! Don't you see?"

Mr. Debienne paled and gave a frightened glance toward Erik. He stood at his full height, staring down at his defendants with his arms crossed, utterly silent on the subject of their future wellbeing.

Mr. Debienne's attention shifted to Christine. "What about you? Are you going to let him kill us for what we've done? What about law and justice and all those things you said mattered?"

Christine swallowed. "I don't… I don't know what he's planned for you. All I know is that I can ask him not to hurt you. To find a better way to deal with you both for your crimes in a way that won't also put a mark upon his soul."

Erik turned to her then, his eyes questioning. She gave a little shrug, feeling wholly unqualified to speak on the subject. She was no great scholar, theologian, or even an attorney, well versed in the nuisances of law and their greater purpose.

"They always say that revenge is not nearly as sweet as you'd think it to be. That it often costs more than it is worth. And I'd rather think you'd like the chance of a future rather than simply to end theirs."

_A future with me_, she did not add, although from the way he looked at her, she could have sworn that he heard it anyway.

He turned back to his captives, still the pillar of sheer intimidation that he was before. "If it pleases the court, I will not exact their punishment myself."

Ms. Poligny stared up at him suspiciously. "That doesn't tell me what you _will _do."

Erik was clearly losing patience. "Madam, at this moment I am liable to rifle through my stores and return with a dose of sodium thiopental to speed things along!"

At her blank stare his upper lip gave a subtle quiver, almost a sneer. "More commonly known as truth serum."

She rolled her eyes. "That only works in the movies."

Erik leaned closer, and Christine saw the look of disgust that crossed her features to have him so close, and she felt a moment's anger on his behalf—only to feel conflicted at her reaction. To this woman he was nothing but a kidnapper so of course she would not want him anywhere near her. But still she remembered her outburst in the courtroom, her cutting words and utter disgust at Erik's very personage, and Christine was not quite ready to forgive such a thing.

"Are you absolutely certain? Perhaps you would find it comforting to know then that it is also one of the three chemicals so carefully selected for the final cocktail for an inmate receiving a lethal injection. So maybe it will not alter your mind and coax you into speaking. Perhaps it will simply cause your brain to cease communication with the rest of your body. You know, those inconsequential functions such as breathing and heart rate."

Ms. Poligny flinched, her eyes assessing. "How do I know if that's really what that does?"

Erik gave a half-shrug and backed away. "You do not. Which is precisely my point. You seem to believe that you hold more power in this situation than you do. I am simply reminding you that should I so choose, I could inject you with any number of poisons. It would be much better for your sake that you cooperate of your own volition. Or is your pride greater than your desire to live?"

But it was not she who spoke, but Mr. Debienne, regardless of the shriek of protest that his Ms. Poligny gave at his confession. "It was her idea to frame you, all right? She wanted Edgar to sell and he wouldn't, so she... she met with me. She reminded me of what we stood to lose if we didn't accept the buyer's offer. She said that she had tried over and over to get Edgar to see reason but he wouldn't! What other options did we have?"

Erik stared at him incredulously. "You are in earnest? You felt you had no other options? Not a single one? You could have filed a civil claim! You could have forced him to purchase your half of the theatre! And yet you chose to listen to this scheming excuse for a woman and murdered him." Erik's eyes shifted to the still silent Mr. Nadir. "Your _friend_."

And this time there was no denying the curve of his lips as if the very term disgusted him.

Not for the first time did Christine wonder what had happened between these two men.

Mr. Debienne appeared almost petulant as he looked at Erik, his voice nearly a whine as he defended himself. "That would have taken time! And that was something we didn't have!"

Ms. Poligny's eyes had hardened the longer her partner spoke, and this time her voice was venomous and spiteful as she addressed Erik once more. "I had no idea you cared for dear Edgar so very much. Tell me, were you the reason he wouldn't sell this place? Had you found someone to make your hauntings less…lonely, so nothing his dear wife said mattered any longer?"

Her implication was obvious and Christine drew in a sharp breath at how utterly still Erik grew as he stared down at her. She had called him a _thing, _had expressed complete revulsion at the notion of being with Erik, yet now thought that her husband had…

Christine gave her gavel a sharp whack, this time intentionally making it overly fervent so as to make every member in the room wince at its volume.

"That's enough!" She insisted, unwilling to allow things to continue in this vein. "Ms. Poligny, are you going to say anything useful or should I ask the prosecutor to restore your gag?"

The woman snorted. "I thought you _wanted _me to speak."

Christine's lips thinned. "I want to know the truth, but so far it seems only Mr. Debienne is interested in providing it. You are far more concerned about angering Erik, and that bodes well for no one."

Erik sniffed and turned away from the wretched woman, taking a step nearer to Christine.

"Well?" Christine pressed. "Would you like to make your own story known or shall we rely upon Mr. Debienne's rendition?"

She chuffed out a large breath, obviously considering. "I don't believe for a moment that our lives won't end the moment I'm done speaking."

Christine inclined her head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. "And if I was in your position and had done the terrible things that you have, I would likely fear the same." Christine sighed, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at trying to empathize with her—not when she was angry and indignant over her continued attitude toward Erik.

Regardless of his status as her kidnapper.

She liked to think she had behaved much better in her early days with him, at least being more polite and understanding than Ms. Poligny.

Yet she wanted this to be over, and it seemed that being stubborn and threatening was getting nowhere with her.

"You have your own perspective, your own reasons for acting the way you did, and I think it would bother you to allow things to be so one-sided. It seems to be important to you to be heard, in your marriage and in general, and you get… angry when you aren't."

Ms. Poligny sent her a nasty look. "Don't think you know me, girl."

Christine shook her head ruefully. "I wouldn't dream of it. But I want this to be over, don't you?"

The woman was quiet for a moment, her eyes drifting to Erik. "I don't want to die," she corrected, her voice not wavering even the littlest bit. "I might not have convinced you that I'm interested in the truth, but you have yet to convince me that you don't mean to kill us all."

Erik opened his mouth in what Christine was certain would be a scathing retort, but she cut in quickly. "I'm the judge here," she reminded everyone, especially Erik. "He made me so himself and gave me this lovely gavel today to solidify my position." She ran her thumb over the smooth wood, giving him a hesitant smile as she caught him looking at her. "And because of that, it's my job to see that the punishment is carried out. And I can assure you, I don't intend to witness any executions today."

And she prayed that Erik did not expect her to.

"Was it your idea to send the letter to him?" Christine prodded gently.

Ms. Poligny remained silent and Christine held up her hand when Mr. Debienne made to interrupt. "Give her a minute to do the right thing."

He gave a nervous glance at Erik, but obeyed her, and finally, with a huff and a flick of her hair, crumpled and disheveled as pieces fell about her face, she relented. "All right, fine. I met with Claude. I suggested a simple way to end things where no one would suspect us. I mean, come on, we had an extortionist in the theatre for years! What was one more letter?"

Erik's expression darkened and this time Christine stood and moved closer, pushing gently until he stood behind her as she faced the woman directly. "Go on."

She shrugged, despite the bonds that tied her. "Not much else to say really. I delivered the note. I had Claude make the threatening phone call from a pay phone down the street. And then…" She stopped, the first hint of remorse in her eyes.

"Then?"

She sniffed, not one of Erik's imperious sounds, but almost as if she was trying to keep from allowing any further emotion from escaping. "He was scrambling to come up with funds. Said that the ghost really meant it this time. And I just stood there and watched him. But you know what he said? When he was looking through our accounts and trying to figure out where to pull the money from, he turned and looked at me and said, 'Maybe you were right. Maybe I should have sold it.'"

Mr. Debienne paled. "He what?"

She laughed, a thin, reedy sound. "I could have called it off! But I didn't _want _to. I could have called you and said that he'd come to his senses, that everything was forgotten. But I didn't! I heard you come through the door, heard you get the gun from the drawer I'd stashed it in, and then you came in… And you know? I think Edgar knew. As he sat there at his desk looking at the both of us… he knew that I had turned you, his beloved partner against him."

Ms. Poligny turned to her husband's friend, a triumphant smirk upon her face. "I think that hurt him more than anything I'd done. He knew about the affairs and he'd purse his lips and remind me not to do it in our bed. But seeing you with me, that gun in his hands… that was the most I'd been able to hurt him. Well, until I got you to pull the trigger of course."

"You… you…" Mr. Debienne struggled against his bonds his face turning an alarming shade of purple, murderous in his rage against this woman. "You _bitch! _He was my friend! And I… I… I _protected _you!"

She sank against the back of her chair, a smile still playing about her lips. "Yes, you did. And it was most chivalrous of you."

Mr. Debienne looked up at Erik, his eyes fierce and determined. "I don't care if you kill me too. I deserve it. But don't let this woman live. Just kill us both for what we did to you. I knew it was wrong, the moment you were arrested. I should have come forward and confessed everything then. But instead we let you rot. We let you suffer through strip searches and public showers and not even being able to use a toilet without someone watching. You can't tell me you don't want to kill us for that!"

"Yes," Erik answered calmly. "I do. But I won't, because the judge has made it perfectly plain that I am to be more clever than that in my dealings with you."

Christine didn't know if she should be proud of him for his restraint, or grimace because he did indeed want to kill these people before her. So instead she merely reached behind her and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

"What you did was horrible," Christine told her gravely. "You were angry and hurt, but that is absolutely no excuse for what you did. And I think that it was only because of your influence that Mr. Debienne acted as he did, although that doesn't excuse him either. You two should be in prison for what you did, not just for killing poor Mr. Poligny, but because you let an innocent man stand trial for your own sins. And I hope that somehow we can turn you over to the police."

Ms. Poligny laughed. "And how do you intend to do that? You girl, are an accessory to kidnapping, so you and your precious _prosecutor_ will both see prison before either of us do. So as I said, the only recourse I can find is if you kill us. Because I sure as hell won't be confessing to any crimes even if you drop me off outside a police station."

Christine glanced up at Erik worriedly. She hadn't thought through the implications of her part in things. She hadn't condoned it, had she? But she had participated. She knew where they were being kept, she could have warned someone… couldn't she?

"Erik?"

Erik stroked her thumb soothingly. "Calm yourself, Christine. There is no possibility that I would ever allow you to face incarceration, and I have no intentions of returning there myself. They are more than welcome to tell the officers about their time here. However, if they choose to do so, it is important that they realize that there will be repercussions."

Ms. Poligny stared at him warily. "Like what? According to you we'll be going to prison and since you won't be there…"

Erik smirked. "You forget the influence of money. If you so much as mention Christine or myself in any negative light, if you portray our little soiree as anything but a mutually agreed upon discourse, then I shall ensure that your time, whether in prison or outside of it if that fool prosecutor is once more put in charge of a criminal case, is as demeaning and dangerous as possible. Is this quite understood?"

Mr. Debienne was pale and shaky as he nodded his head, and Christine had no doubt that he would confess to the authorities quickly and fully when given the opportunity. He appeared a broken man, heavy burdened by the depths of his failings.

And she pitied him for it.

She reached out and patted his shoulder. "Don't try to protect her anymore," she murmured softly. "Just tell the police what you did, what _she _did, and serve your time quietly. At least then you can know that you finally did the right thing."

Erik tugged her away from him, and as she saw his glare, she realized that he did not at all approve of her attempts to soothe the man before her.

Was he jealous?

A funny thought.

But perhaps he coveted her gentle touches, her desire to alleviate pain, and did not like to see her offering such things to another man.

"I don't believe your power reaches as far as you'd like to think," Ms. Poligny tried again.

Erik only shrugged in response. "It is within your prerogative to believe as you will, madam. But I doubt you shall be pleased with the consequences of defying me."

Christine didn't know how he did it. But his voice curled and hardened, both caressing and biting as he threatened, leaving her absolutely certain that he did indeed wield enough influence in order to follow through with his threat.

He'd managed to leave a secure facility himself. He'd bribed a judge's son into entering his employ. And what of that security guard that seemed to know far more about her than he should?

Oh yes, Erik could do as he pleased.

And as Ms. Poligny's eyes widened at his tone, as she shuddered and finally looked at him in fear, Christine knew she recognized it too.

Christine watched as Erik replaced both their gags, the two conspirators casting each other wary glances, and she wondered what he would do with them now. Was there enough evidence to prosecute them properly? Or would they simply go free, only the memories of this trial to serve as a mimicry of justice for Mr. Poligny?

And then she turned to the third man, quite having forgotten he was there, and her brow furrowed.

"Erik," she inquired. "If they were the only ones involved in Mr. Poligny's death, why is he here?"

And she saw him smirk as he cast a dangerous glance at the last of his captives. "An excellent question, Christine. Why indeed."

* * *

Sooo... This was a long one!

Ms. Poligny might not have pulled the trigger herself, but she was certainly involved... Do you think she shares even more responsibility than her partner? And it appears that the Daroga was not complicit in the murder... so what on earth is he doing here? We finally get to hear him talk next chapter, and he has some explaining to do!


	26. Chapter 26

Sorry that this update is on the later side! My best friend/Beta got engaged today (to my brother's best friend actually... small world), and I was tasked with hiding in the bushes and taking pictures. Well, the fire ants found me, but I still got the shot! And that's what really matters. I can neither confirm nor deny that I cried on the way back to the car...

Ahem.

Anyway.

Lots of you are anxious to hear from the Daroga and I can't say that I blame you. He's been silent for a while now... So, onward!

* * *

XXVI

"Well?" Christine insisted. "Are you going to tell me?"

Erik hummed but instead of untying the last of the defendants, he took hold of the back of his chair and pulled, the legs giving a terrible squeal as they scraped against the stage.

Christine cringed at the noise, but thankfully Erik did not go far with him, evidently only wanting him away from the panel that sank into the floor.

"What are you doing? And please give an answer this time!"

Erik sighed and turned toward her. "This man's story is a bit more… personal. And I would rather we have as few witnesses as possible."

"Oh," Christine murmured, and she watched Erik return to the shadowy recess of backstage as Mr. Debienne and Ms. Poligny began to vanish into the darkness below.

It was uncomfortable being left with the bound man, his gaze never wavering from hers even as she steadfastly ignored him. She could have untied him, she supposed, but she knew nothing of him, had no knowledge if he was of the violent sort, and it seemed much safer for them both if she kept him as he was.

To her great relief, Erik reappeared a moment later, yet as Christine regarded him, she grew wary of his strange demeanor. He seemed almost proud? Or at least pleased with himself, yet there was tension in his shoulders and hints of anger in his eyes as he strode forward to the newly restored stage.

"There is only us now, Daroga. And I am certain you are simply bubbling with questions."

The man's eyes flickered pointedly to Christine, and she shifted awkwardly. Where was she supposed to go? There was history between these two, that much was obvious, and while she would have to grant them privacy if Erik so wanted, she did not relish the thought of being locked away somewhere alone.

But Erik glanced at her also, no hint of displeasure at her continued presence. "I am going to release your tongue, Daroga, which should be such a relief for you given how you do so like to talk. Though I warn you, do watch what you say in front of the girl. I am rather protective of her, you know."

Christine sat down on the steps of her platform as she watched Erik step behind the man and remove his gag.

"Erik, what are you _doing?_"

Erik moved back to face him, his expression the perfect picture of confusion. "Doing? I thought it was perfectly obvious."

Mr. Nadir rolled his eyes. "Do not play dumb with me. Should we start on the subject of the girl, or perhaps this ridiculous sham of a trial you have concocted?"

Erik walked about in front of him, tapping at his chin lightly, all the appearance of deep contemplation. "I think we will avoid your sermonizing on both subjects for now. Instead, let us discuss _your _dealings in all of this, shall we?"

The man—the Daroga? A funny word, that—did not appear wholly convinced for his attention once more settled on her.

"Has he hurt you?"

Christine blinked and she gave a quick glance to Erik, not certain if she should speak with this particular captive. He seemed agitated, despite his best efforts to appear otherwise, and she did not want to be the one to upset.

But the man already looked as if he already believed that Erik had. And the very idea… the very notion that Erik had hurt her in some way, either with bruises or sharp words, or some acts too painful and horrible to consider for even a moment, was so utterly _wrong _that she could not remain silent. Not in regard to Erik who had been so sweet and gentlemanly in his own clumsy way…

"No, he has not," she stated firmly. "In _any _capacity."

There. She hoped that was clear enough without listing off a myriad of possible hurts.

The Daroga however still looked at her with a mixture of doubtfulness and pity.

"It's all right," he said quietly. "I know you are frightened of him…"

"Daroga," Erik interjected, stepping in front the man's view of Christine. "These are precisely the idiotic fantasies I warned against speaking of. She has already stated that she is unharmed, and _I _have already stated that we are going to talk about how you aided the police in charging me with a crime I most certainly did not commit."

Mr. Nadir's face grew pensive. "Why would you not want to talk about her? If she is unharmed, if she is here willingly…"

Erik's eyes must have revealed something, for the Daroga's expression turned to one of triumph. "Ah! So she is _not _here willingly. She is as much a captive as myself, although even more so since she has not the benefit of years to give her knowledge regarding your true character."

Erik scoffed openly at that. "It took Christine only a moment to see me far more clearly than you have ever proved capable."

The Daroga did not appear wholly convinced, and Christine wondered if she should intercede. Was she here willingly? She wasn't exactly... unwilling. At least, not anymore. It was all very murky and confusing, and she was sure if there was a host of doctors looking at her they would be quick to supply diagnoses of temporary psychosis or Stockholm Syndrome to explain her affection for Erik. But when it was just her, alone with her own thoughts, with no one to judge or prod or tell her she was unreasonable...

She knew she could do good here. She knew that something good would come of her time with Erik, however ridiculous it might seem to others. And if he told her to go, to leave, to return to the life she once knew, she wasn't at all certain she would obey. Not when it meant leaving him alone to suffer and despair, not a scrap of human kindness to ever be bestowed upon him again.

"My relationship with Erik is just between us," she finally stated, as that seemed a safe enough explanation. "And it really only needs to make sense to us. But if it makes you feel better, I... I like Erik very much, and enjoy his company and..." She blushed, words suddenly failing her at the man's skeptical look and the tentative smile that played about Erik's lips.

"There, you have had your answer," Erik directed to his final captive. "Now perhaps we can focus our attentions on the far more pressing matter."

Mr. Nadir sighed, suddenly appearing weary. "What is it you'd like to know?"

Erik leaned forward, much closer than he had come in any of his previous interrogations—almost as if by sheer proximity he could absorb the information he desired. "Why did you help the police? Why did you bring them to my home? _Why_?" This last word was a hiss of pain and anger, and Christine flinched at the hearing of it.

Whatever the Daroga's intention had been, Erik clearly was deeply hurt by it, and Christine hoped for the man's sake that he had at least a plausible account for it.

Erik pushed away with a scowl, and the man maintained a calm air as he regarded him carefully. "You believe I have betrayed you."

Erik snorted derisively. "Belief has no bearing here. I _know_ of your betrayal."

Mr. Nadir nodded. "I expected you to think so, even though I had hoped you would know me to be a better man than that."

Erik glared back at him. "My assessment of your character is formed from the sum of your actions. Perhaps if you wanted me to think well of you, you should have behaved differently."

The Daroga gave a low grunt, his expression pensive. And to Christine's nervousness, his gaze once more settled upon her. "How do you remember him when the trial first began?" His eyes flickered briefly to Erik. "The _real _trial."

Christine's brow furrowed as she wondered to what he referred. "You mean… his… face?"

Erik cringed and thankfully Mr. Nadir shook his head. "No, not that. His demeanor."

Christine thought back to her initial impressions, wishing suddenly that she had thought to ask Erik for her notebook back, the better to ensure all of her questions were answered.

He had been… strange in the early days of the trial. Almost corpse-like in ways that had nothing to do with his appearance, but everything to do with the deadness in his eyes, the stillness of his body, the lack of recognition of anything about him.

She had supposed that jail had done that to him as well as the embarrassment he suffered by his obvious discomfort at his face being clearly visible, but…

"He didn't seem truly… there. I remember wondering if he'd had any kind of assessment to make sure he should even _be _on trial, he seemed so out of it."

Mr. Nadir nodded. "You likely do not know our history, and I will not presume to enlighten you at this moment as that will only upset a certain someone," he looked pointedly at Erik who continued to glare menacingly, his arms crossed elegantly as he stared down at him in warning, "but it is important to know that I… I feel somewhat responsible for him."

Erik rolled his eyes. "A misplaced notion I have tried to alleviate many times."

The Daroga shrugged, stunted though it was by his bonds. "You have certainly tried, and I have certainly given it much consideration. But every whiff of gossip, every note of scandal at the theatre reminded me that you were there and causing mischief, and no one would know how to deal with you."

Erik's lips thinned. "Quite."

Christine bit her lip to contain the smile that threatened to emerge at Erik's droll reply, but she reminded herself firmly that there were hurts being discussed here and now was not the time for amusement.

"Before you continue," Christine interrupted. "May I ask a question?"

It was Erik who was quick to respond. "You may ask anything you wish, my dear. You have not relinquished your judgeship."

She did smile at that, wondering if there would be cause to use her gavel again before the day was over, but forced her attention back to the men before her—most particularly the Daroga. "Do you think Erik is an evil man?"

She didn't know why it mattered to her to know the answer. Perhaps it would help shape her view of his testimony if she better understood this man's knowledge of Erik's character. During the first trial he had claimed to be a friend, but his accusation of what might have transpired between Erik and her, once again made her question his perception.

He was right about one thing, of course. She did not know their history, nor was she like to in the foreseeable future unless she gathered the courage to ask Erik directly. But still she knew that Erik was not evil. Not after seeing his treatment of herself, and most decidedly not after he saw the way he cared for Boo.

Mr. Nadir cast a wary glance at Erik, who looked at him expectantly. What did he think he would hear?

"I believe that Erik is… dangerous. Not evil, but his sense of morality, of right and wrong, can be severely skewed to suit his own interests."

Christine grimaced. It was hard to argue with that, especially when she had thought as much herself over the course of her time with him.

"And yet you think you are his friend? Despite that fact?"

The Daroga cleared his throat. "I was perhaps hasty in my classification of our… relationship. I am as close to a friend as he has had, of that I am certain… until now." He looked at her pointedly, and Christine was filled with a warm sense of fondness. She wanted to be Erik's friend. Wanted it to be obvious that she cared for him and, while she did not approve of everything he did, she at the very least would make an effort to understand his point of view.

"I'd like to be his friend," she confirmed. "But I think a lot of compassion goes into being that."

Erik cut in gruffly. "While I am sure it is fascinating to dissect the innumerable qualities that are required to bear my company for extended periods, I would ask that we return to whatever inane malady you supposed I was suffering from that prompted your dalliance with authorities."

Christine glanced at him worriedly, not at all liking that he would be so quick to dismiss her offer of friendship. But as she stared at him, his eyes resolutely avoiding hers, she thought him to almost be... embarrassed?

Erik was an intensely private man, that was becoming abundantly clear. And perhaps he treasured such moments with her when they only had Boo for company, not when there was someone to watch and judge and possibly find fault with what was meant to be sweetly given.

The Daroga gave a placating nod. "Fine. As Christine has already attested, you were not yourself. When the incident with Joseph Buquet reached my ears, I was fairly set on intervening, of discovering your hiding place and insisting that you vacate the premise and cease your terrorizing. But then suddenly... you vanished. Only to apparently reappear with the murder of a manager."

Erik's irritation was obvious and he paced about the stage. "And you were only too quick to believe that I had been the guilty party."

"No," Mr. Nadir corrected. "I had my suspicions, I had my concerns, and I was going to find you to put my mind at ease."

"Ah yes," Erik answered resentfully. "For it is clearly my responsibility to ease your conscience."

The Daroga pursed his lips and gave Erik a chastising look. "I found that music room of yours, do you remember?"

Erik stilled.

"I found it, and I found you, but you were not the man I remembered. You were no mocking genius, no eloquent model of all things artistic. Instead I found a shell of a man, someone broken who would not even acknowledge my existence. You, who had built an entire domain based upon the defense of your home, and yet I entered it and _lived_!"

Erik stared at him intently. "You are lying," he accused, although his voice lacked any true conviction.

"No, I am not. I will not pretend to know the reason behind your withdrawal, only that I witnessed the results of it. You would not answer me when I spoke, you would not react even when I touched one of your precious instruments."

At that Christine waited for Erik's murderous glare to turn physical, but Mr. Nadir pressed on. "You can hate me all you like for what I chose to do next, but the fact that you stand here today tells me that I was right for doing it. Although I would have hoped that you used your freedom for something better than kidnapping, but perhaps I wish for too much."

Christine did not think that exactly fair. "So you admit that you allowed him to be arrested, you _helped _him be arrested when he hadn't done anything wrong?"

The Daroga chuckled. "With Erik there is always something wrong. But yes, I did. I had hoped that if given to the authorities, someone would finally be able to help him—in ways that I, nor anyone else, could."

"You think they _helped _me?" Erik snarled. "You think they saw some man worthy of aid? If you thought me so miserable before, you know nothing of what I then had to endure!"

Mr. Nadir flinched. "That was never my intention. Can you not understand my position? I wished for you to do no harm to others, while also receiving treatment for yourself. I hardly think that a matter of betrayal."

Erik mouth opened, his expression one that made it perfectly plain that he was ready to rage, ready to hurl all sorts of terrible words and curses on this man, and Christine wasn't quite ready to witness such a thing.

"Then you should have taken him to a doctor," she replied firmly. "You should have called for that sort of help instead of a police detective that was perfectly willing to pin a terrible murder on him. Did you really think he would be granted an asylum instead of prison?"

The Daroga frowned. "Given his state, I thought it a perfectly reasonable assumption, yes."

"Well, you were wrong!" Erik shouted, the last of his patience evidently spent. "It was wrong of you to presume anything in regard to my health and welfare, but clearly this goes beyond even my wildest imaginings as to the depths of your self-righteousness. You entered my home, you invade it willingly with the authorities, then proceed to testify in a _murder_ trial of which you know perfectly well I was free from all guilt. How am I to take that as anything but a betrayal of the most extreme nature?"

Christine wanted to say that she understood some of Mr. Nadir's position. She tried to picture the helplessness that would come with a despondent Erik, one that did not react when she touched his arm, did not smile when she acquiesced, or when she allowed him to cook something particularly delicious for her. What would she have done?

Not what the Daroga did. If Erik had shut down so completely, he needed a doctor, not a jail. The authorities should have seen that, should have brought in a psychologist to ensure his mental wellbeing, but perhaps he had been better by then? Had he awoken confused and frightened, suddenly in chains without any memory of the reason?

Mr. Nadir continued to look at Erik steadily, showing little fear at Erik's temper. "I do not expect you to understand, nor will I pretend that this is the outcome that I hoped for. But might I point out one small observation?"

Erik's lip curled, his disgust for the man apparent. "As if I would allow you anything."

The Daroga nodded but spoke anyway. "If I had not acted as I did, you would not have found the girl. And somehow I think you value her company more than anything else."

Christine waited for Erik to continue his rage, but instead he stood stiffly, and was... looking at her.

She didn't know what to say to that. She would have still gone to court that day, but perhaps it would have been for the trial of Ms. Poligny or Mr. Debienne, the police's perceptions of the case unmuddied by Erik's involvement. Or perhaps she would have been dismissed entirely, no pending trials requiring members of the public to see to their civic duties. She would have returned home, gone to work, only to continue the cycle for... well, at least for the immediate future.

And while she shouldn't, she _knew_ she shouldn't think so, that life seemed perfectly boring now. It was a safe one—for the most part at least—and definitely less confusing. But now, after she remembered what it was to have conversations, to have _hugs_, to be kind and sweet and for such gentleness to be returned in full... she didn't want to go back to a life without it. Not now.

And hopefully not ever.

"I hope you do not expect me to be grateful to you," Erik forced out eventually.

Mr. Nadir smiled ruefully. "I would never dream of it. I only hope to offer perspective."

Yet that was still too much to ask from Erik, too much for him to have borne, regardless of her appreciation for certain outcomes now.

Maybe they would have met another way. She would have entered a raffle and won tickets to see a performance here. She would have gotten lost leaving the theatre and stumbled upon one of Erik's rooms which ended with a secret passage. He would have found her, would have offered to escort her home, and then…

It didn't matter.

Their experiences had led them here, and while some gratitude could be found for it, of course it could, that did not mean that they must appreciate every circumstance either.

"If Erik won't say it, then I will. What you did was wrong. You let an innocent man be prosecuted, you let a… if not a friend, then an acquaintance, one who needed help and a doctor, be bullied and abused while he waited for his trial and you said not one word to stop it. If you were just waiting for him to come back to his senses, you could have said something _months _ago and saved him the horribleness of that trial! Why in the world did you let it go so far?"

Mr. Nadir looked at her quizzically. "But his senses did not return. Not until the trial had already begun did he even begin to speak."

Christine paused in her indignation at that. "What do you mean?"

She looked to Erik for some explanation, but he offered none. But something about his eyes, the avoidance of her own gaze, the tiniest hunch of his shoulders… perhaps he was not so unaware of himself as the Daroga supposed. "Erik?"

"I told you," he answered numbly. "That it did not seem worth it to fight back."

How lonely had he been to think that? In how much despair?

It made her heart ache just to imagine it.

He had spoken of how the one smile she had given him had changed so much, but it hadn't really occurred to her what that truly meant. But to hear Mr. Nadir speak of his apathy, for it to have lasted months and months, through all the indignities he so unjustly suffered, yet it was her simple gesture that broke through his fog of misery…

It was absurd.

Wasn't it?

But he looked at her so earnestly, his eyes so wide and vulnerable as he stood before her, there was no doubting him.

She stood and walked toward him unsure if her gesture would be rebuffed given that they had an audience, but finding in that moment that she would rather face the rejection than allow him to go a moment longer without more proof of her affection.

That someone cared.

She wrapped her arms about his torso, and once again he was hesitant to hold her, but it didn't matter. In time he'd come to realize that he was welcome to.

"I want this to be over," she murmured into his lapel. "I don't want you to dwell on your hurts anymore. I want to see about mending them."

And when one tentative hand came and brushed against the crown of her head, stroking ever so lightly as if afraid that he would cause her discomfort, she was glad at his reply.

"Very well, Christine. Let us proceed to sentencing."

* * *

Sooo...Thoughts on the Daroga's actions? Do you think he did the right thing by intervening as he did, or should he have found another way? Is he absolved? And who was surprised by poor Erik's condition before any of this even began? And what should happen to everybody now?

Thanks for reading and please review!


	27. Chapter 27

Okay, a hopefully quick note to start things off. I would like it to be perfectly clear that I am in no way about to defend the Daroga's choices. What he did was sooo beyond... yeah. You know. You read it. But just to help clear up his reasoning, he was not actually trying to be malicious. He didn't agree with Erik's choice to haunt the opera house, and when he discovered that our dear Erik was catatonic, he did want to try to find him some help. The trouble is, it is extremely difficult to get someone involuntarily committed for psychiatric assistance. It has to be proven that they are a danger to themselves or others (at least, that's how it is in my state... and given that I've had family members that could have greatly benefited from involuntary treatment, it's bit of a tender subject). Anyway. Because of that, he would have presumed that by calling in the authorities, they could have at least gotten him some kind of psychiatric assistance. In reality, it's a little incredible that Erik made it to trial in the first place, as mental competence must be proven before a defendant stands trial. Only Erik knows for sure what happened before and during his incarceration, and so far he hasn't been overly forthcoming with those details... So we'll just have to go on what we know up to this point. So, in short (I think I passed that a long time ago...), his options were limited, but he jumped to extremes far too quickly. Much like I think he did in the original novel by showing Raoul how to get down to Erik's home in the first place. *indignant sniff*

Ahem.

Anyway.

Let's see how things progress, shaaalll we? Onward!

* * *

XXVII

Christine had been very nervous to discover what Erik had in mind for sentencing. Visions of blood and screams filled her mind, a violent revenge upon those who had wronged him.

But instead he stood with his hand lightly clasped about hers, almost too loose to even be considered a true hold—as if he was giving her plenty of opportunity to pull away if she so chose.

She wasn't sure if she should be grateful or sad that he felt the need to do so.

Only it was the Daroga that finally asked the question most pressing on her mind. "Erik, what are you going to do?"

Erik turned to the man, his expression souring somewhat as he regarded him. "Do? I should think that hardly your concern. Have you learned nothing from all of this? _I _did nothing wrong. It was your precious humanity that turned on one another, love and hatred spoiling a perfectly reasonable business venture. So I shall thank you to remember that in future, when you are so quick to meddle and place blame upon me for sins that are not my own."

The Daroga was clearly surprised at his words. "Future? I am to expect to live then?"

"You shall leave here for one reason only. That something good _did_ come of your betrayal, no matter how begrudgingly I must admit it, as I now have this lovely girl beside me. I shall therefore do you the kindness of allowing you to leave, with the firm reminder that it is still well within my rights to defend my home from trespassers should you ever seek to inflict your company upon me again. You would do well to heed my warning."

Mr. Nadir nodded, his expression still wary. "And the others? What will you do with them?"

Erik sighed in exasperation. "What did I not just communicate? Perhaps your issue all along has been some sort of problem with your ears that you cannot hear me when I speak. They will be dealt with accordingly, in ways that will not prompt Christine to hate me. For I do not wish to tempt whatever miracle has occurred that she does not do so already."

Christine glanced up at him. "Erik, that's taking things a bit far. It's not... a miracle, just... being decent."

Erik gave her a patient look. "In my ample experience, finding that particular quality within another person is indeed a miraculous happenstance."

Christine didn't know how to respond to that, as it seemed fruitless to argue with him regarding his own unhappy life. Especially when she could believe that people had been as unkind to him as he claimed.

"Now," Erik continued. "I am going to untie you. You are going to walk out of here of your own volition as I have other matters to attend to. And I shall simply leave with you the reminder of my innocence, and provide you this opportunity, for once in your miserable existence, to not move against me. You would be wise to not trespass upon my forgiving nature again. Do you concur?"

The Daroga's lips thinned. "I believe that you did not commit the murder, Erik. It was well established that I never thought you had done it. But you _did_ hold three people captive for days!" His eyes flickered to Christine briefly, and she shook her head minutely.

He most certainly should not hold her within the same category as the others. She didn't want anyone else's opinion on the things she had done while with Erik—whether she should have tried harder to leave, to escape him before her affections had grown and she understood him so much better.

All she wanted was to think for herself, to act in a manner that seemed right and good and...

And pretending that she stood next to Erik, her hand so carefully tucked between his, with anything but a warm feeling in her heart, seemed beyond cruel.

"And?" Erik asked, his tone short as his irritation grew. "They were both murderers. And you…" Erik waved his hand dismissively. "You are you."

Christine would have laughed at that if Erik hadn't been so perfectly serious about it. Evidently something within their past made it so that a three day stint, bound and locked within a theatre restroom was not such a shocking occurrence.

She wondered if Erik would ever tell her of that particular tale.

One of the Daroga's eyebrows rose in question. "Yet you think I will not contact the police? I believe I have already proved capable of doing so."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Quite."

This time Christine stepped forward, unsure if she should intrude, but also… hungry and weary and wanting nothing more than all of this to be over so she could finally see to lunch and Boo and no more jaunts to the above for such a grisly business.

"You have a chance to do something good now," she offered, feeling awkward and uncomfortable at her interruption, but knowing that her words were at least true. "If you really want to talk to the police, maybe you could testify about what you witnessed here… about their confessions and how mad and angry Ms. Poligny is and… perhaps if you'd be so kind, not mention that you were all hostages while it happened."

She felt foolish as soon as she saw the incredulous looks on both Erik and the Daroga's faces, but she meant every word. It seemed the least he could do after everything he put Erik through, well meaning or not. "Will you? I mean, will you please not tell them? Because I... I'll get in trouble too. Because I knew and I didn't help. And you may not like Erik very much, but I don't think I've done anything to you personally for you to want me to go to prison."

Also perhaps not wholly true as she also did nothing to help him either, and she certainly wasn't versed enough in the law to know if she could be prosecuted as an accessory. But it seemed enough of a possibility to send a measure of fear through her, that her little game of judge with her nice shiny gavel and the authority granted her, if only in a mock trial, would suddenly mean it was she who would face the horrors of incarceration.

This time Erik gave her hand a little squeeze, his eyes gentling. "I was very clear before, Christine. I would never allow such a thing to happen to you, regardless of what this man chose to divulge."

She gave him a wane smile, comforted but not at all certain that such a thing could be circumvented by sheer will alone.

"I will... do what I can to ensure that those two are prosecuted fully. If that means denying any charges they wish levied against you... I will do so."

Erik appeared rather surprised by his acquiescence, but he nodded all the same.

"But Erik, know this."

Christine's stomach clenched with worry at what would come next.

"This cannot happen again. I... understand why you did this, and that the measures I took were extreme. But I want your word that you will not be the cause of any more abductions."

Erik smirked. "And that would mean something to you? My word?"

The Daroga sighed. "I choose to believe that it means something to you, yes."

Erik glanced down at Christine, and she wondered if he was considering the likelihood that she would try to escape. Would he think that bringing her back would constitute an additional kidnapping, or merely the continuation of a previous venture?

"Fine. I shall retire as prosecutor if it is truly so distasteful to you."

Christine grimaced inwardly at that. That was not at all the same as promising not to abduct anyone in future—he merely would not create another trial for them.

Yet the Daroga appeared satisfied, nodding solemnly and pulling at the bonds as a reminder for release. "Well?" he asked pointedly.

Erik sighed and released Christine's hand, going to the man's chair and beginning the tedious process of undoing the many knots that held him.

Except with Erik's nimble fingers, it did not take nearly as long as she would have expected, although when it came time to undo the final binding, Erik hesitated for a moment. "And now I shall have your word that you will be an obedient daroga and leave here quietly."

The man looked at Christine once again, searching her face for, she supposed, any hint that she wished for his aid. She held his gaze steadily, wishing and hoping, yet also with a gentle assurance from within that she needed no such assistance. People would call her foolish, but she was tired of second-guessing, and he must have seen her confidence for eventually he answered. "I will do as you say," he confirmed.

Erik smirked. "Excellent. If only you would be so amiable in future, perhaps I would not need to go to such extremes to ensure your cooperation."

The Daroga rolled his eyes, and as the last rope fell away, he stood, stretching muscles and testing circulation in what Christine was certain was a rather painful process.

"You may leave now," Erik reminded him firmly.

Mr. Nadir sighed, smoothing his clothes as best he could. "You shall not even be so kind as to open the door?"

Erik waved away his suggestion with a flick of his hand. "If you proved capable of entering one of my chambers without permission, I assume you can vacate these premises with little difficulty. I have other business to attend to."

The Daroga appeared ready to protest, but he staid his tongue, and gave one last smile to Christine. "I hope you will be well, child."

Christine's eyes flickered to Erik briefly before she gave a nod of acknowledgement. "As do I."

She did not miss Erik's frown at her words, but he said nothing more—not until the Daroga made his way from the stage and started up one of the side aisles, Christine briefly wondering if there was in fact some door or window that would have given way to her if she had tried a bit harder.

Or in reality, had really tried at all.

"Oh, and one more thing," Erik called, his voice genial even though Mr. Nadir stopped and turned to him with a suspicious look.

"Yes?"

"If you do in fact confer again with the authorities, if you seek to have Christine removed from my care, I shall be forced to remind a certain immigration agent that your visa is woefully out of date. You might think that your work harassing me is of the utmost importance, but I am not certain that this government would agree, do you?"

The Daroga shook his head with a tired sigh, continuing his walk to the outdoors.

To freedom.

And while Christine had come to think fondly of Erik, she still had to swallow back her desire to call out to him, to ask to see how it was possible to leave, if only for a moment.

But instead it was his voice that trailed back through the theatre, firm in its resolve. "Do what you will, Erik. I have to come to realize that you always shall."

Christine looked at Erik in surprise when he murmured a triumphant, "_Finally_," under his breath, and she was unsure if he referred to Mr. Nadir's sudden absence or his parting acceptance that Erik would do as he pleased.

"What now?" she asked quietly, the stage feeling large and empty again now that everyone was gone.

Erik's gaze remained on Mr. Nadir until he had disappeared from the auditorium, and then he looked at her softly, the lingering anger seeping from his eyes as if something had once again settled within him now that the man was gone.

"Now you have a choice to make."

Christine's stomach clenched anxiously, and she swallowed thickly. "I do?"

Erik nodded soberly. "You do. I must tend to our other defendants as they have yet to reach their final destinations, and you have made it quite clear that you do not care for the darkness below the stage. Shall I escort you home first, or would you care to accompany me?"

"I... where will we be going?"

Erik's eyes glittered strangely, the prospect of whatever was to come obviously giving him some measure of excitement. "If I were to inform you of that, it would no longer be a surprise."

She nibbled at her lip, considering. She worried about Boo being left alone, grateful that at the very least they would no longer be making these long jaunts that took her away from him for such great durations. Except... the trial had lasted no longer than her days on a jury, followed by her work at the restaurant, so would another hour or two be really that bad?

And it wasn't as if she was so terribly hungry. Erik had taken to spoiling her and evidently her stomach approved of going without the slightest pang of discomfort.

He would make her plump before long if she let him.

"Will we be going outside?"

Maybe it was stupid to ask, but at the moment that was what mattered to her most. She wanted to see sky, to taste a cold wintery breeze, tainted though it would be from the city.

She thought again of Erik's display while he perused her jury notes, making special notation of the little castle she'd drawn in the margin. Had he been sincere in his offer for them to live in such a place? Land all about them, the only company in site a few sheep that grazed about, growing fat on the lush grasses of their private domain...

It all sounded like a dream.

But one that would take a great deal of sacrifice to achieve.

Erik was looking at her in that peculiar way, the one that revealed that he thought her quite mad, but that he was also willing to placate her however was needed. "That would be the point, yes. If I intended to keep them here, I would leave them quite where they are."

Christine readily believed that he would do so.

"I think... I'd rather go with you."

He smiled again, a bright, satisfied smile that made her heart flutter. "Then you have gifted me with your company, and I would be most ungracious not to bestow the same courtesy upon you."

She wasn't at all sure of his intentions as he took her hand and led her through to the lobby, back to the very window he had found her at before. "Do you want me to wait here?" she asked rather wistfully. While she appreciated the view, it was a poor substitute for actually getting to experience the outdoors, but to her great surprise, Erik shook his head. His smile grew a bit more brittle, a wariness settling over his features, but he moved to the grand doors of the entrance, and with a brief movement of his hands that she could not ever hope to duplicate or fully understand, one of them opened.

She was absolutely certain that they had been firmly fastened, yet now, almost by his will alone, they weren't.

What a peculiarly powerful man, her Erik.

She swallowed again, watching him stand beside the open door. "I... what are you saying?"

Was he letting her go?

She had hoped for it. She had worked hard to earn his trust enough that the subject of her relocation could be discussed without potential danger to herself. But now, upon the seeming verge of that very thing, it felt a frightening prospect.

He had promised to care for her, whether or not she accepted him into her life. But did she really want to return to her apartment? Boo was still downstairs, she was most certainly fired, and... and...

She would be completely alone.

Erik hummed, a soft little sound that gave no answer, before disappearing through the door. Christine took a steadying breath and forced herself to follow, wondering at her own reticence.

"You wanted to go outside, yes?"

Erik asked suddenly, making her jump as she had not yet caught sight of him, leaning as he was against the wall of the theatre.

Christine nodded hesitantly and tucked her arms about herself. The air had turned bitter, the sun obstructed by a heavy layer of cloud, lending a grey and sober feeling to the day. More snow had fallen, the steps covered by untainted plumes of white, while the street had been swept revealing the dark charcoal of asphalt mixed with the sludge of dirty snow. "I did," she confirmed, wondering if she agreed with her earlier desire.

"I would be... most pleased if you are still here when I return," Erik murmured, his voice remarkably calm given the subject. She looked at him searchingly, and the way his eyes were shuttered, the way he forced himself into a position of ruthless nonchalance, said quite enough. This offering pained him. Him, who didn't mind threatening and cajoling when it suited him, so long as he reached his aim. But he did not remind her that he had the perfect hostage currently sleeping in his leather chair downstairs— little helpless Boo that he could quite efficiently use to make her do whatever he wished. He could remind her of his resources, that she lacked the funds and knowledge necessary to disappear to some corner of the world where he would not find her.

Instead he said that he would be pleased if she made no attempt at escape, and she... she wanted to please him. To prove that she could remain outside without thought of fleeing, of hurting him again by forcing him back into the cage of incarceration. That not everyone in the world wanted to see him wounded and bleeding.

Christine took another breath, this time reveling as the cold air filled her lungs, this time fresh and crisp and lacking the damp smell of Erik's underground domain. She then leaned down and brushed away any lingering snow from the upper step, sitting down with a satisfied sigh.

This is what she had wanted. Just to be out here, to know that she could and that he would not be so much of an ogre as to allow her even this.

She peered up at him, a looming shadow beside her, and she smiled at his look of distaste. "I didn't have a handkerchief," she reminded him teasingly.

Erik sniffed at that. "You could have asked."

Christine shrugged, oddly flustered by his gentle censure. "You'll come back?"

Erik laughed then, a humorless sound that made her shiver. "Christine, you never need worry that I shall be the one to abandon you."

Her cheeks flushed, his words oddly cutting. She wanted to promise she would not, but wouldn't that be the same as a vow of commitment? That no matter their future, she would be there for him, a friend to him, without regard for her own dreams?

But what were those anymore?

Yet there was one thing she could at least assure him of. "I'll still be here, Erik. I've been a part of this much of the trial, and I don't think I'll stop now. Not so close to the end."

Erik nodded, and he stood fully, staring down at her as if he had a great desire to say more. But instead he sighed once more and left, Christine suddenly feeling much colder than she had before.

He shut the door behind him, and she could clearly hear the tumblers working that indicated he had locked it. And she felt a moment's panic.

He wouldn't leave her out here for long. He knew that it was cold, that with the days growing shorter as another year drew to a close, they did not have ample time before it grew dark.

But if he did decide to abandon her, she would not know the way back to him. Her mother's quilt would be lost to her, as would her little Boo, and all the pretty things he had given her as well as...

Well... Him.

Christine nibbled at her lip and tried to appreciate the air, the bustle of the city as cars passed and pedestrians walked purposefully toward their destinations, heads typically bowed against the slight breeze as well as if to ward off contact with their fellow men.

She now felt more of an outsider than ever before.

Christine pulled her coat more firmly about her, burying her nose in the collar. She had taken to wearing one so as to ward off the drafty air of Erik's tunnels, and she hated to think how miserable it would be to sit on the slightly damp step without some protection against the wintery chill that nipped at every bit of exposed flesh.

She did not know how long she waited, only that her nose was cold and her cheeks were pinked, and she was quite ready to go home.

But where was home?

Home had been with her papa. Then home had been where her treasured mementos had resided. Where was home now?

Yet before she could reach a satisfactory answer, a dark vehicle pulled to the curb, the window rolling down and Erik's relieved face peering at her from the interior."

She stood and stepped closer. "You drive an SUV?" she asked incredulously.

"I drive many things. This is simply large enough to hold the bodies."

* * *

Sooo... Uh oh. Maybe Christine shouldn't have taken her eyes off of Erik after all... but at least she didn't have to see the executions, right? That's something at least!

Did Erik do the right thing by letting the Daroga go? Or should he have gotten more comeuppance for what he did? I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	28. Chapter 28

Apparently being a Maid of Honour is some sort of poison for a writing muse... because all I want to do is help with wedding plans! But not to worry, I shall still... attempt... to tear myself away long enough to get chapters done... (Looks at woefully unfinished chapter of my novel...)

But anyway! Time for Christine to find the bodies...

Onward!

* * *

XXVIII

Christine lurched forward in alarm, nearly slipping on the snow in her haste to reach Erik's vehicle.

Had he really killed them while she sat here waiting?

But as she opened the door and looked frantically toward the back seat, instead of the corpses she so feared, two sets of perfectly healthy eyes stared back at her.

"A joke," Erik stated drolly.

"Erik!" she chastised breathlessly, her heart still pounding at what could have been an utter disaster. "That was a dreadful thing for you to say!"

"Ah," he objected. "But what perhaps is worse is that you so easily believed it."

She blinked at him and opened her mouth to retort, but quickly shut it again. Was her faith in him still so tenuous that a mere jest could cause it to falter?

Evidently so.

So she took a steadying breath and offered an apologetic smile. "You're right, and I'm sorry. I just... I still don't know what we're doing."

Erik nodded. "Nor will you if you continue to stand out in the cold. Get in, Christine, you are letting all the heat seep out."

She rolled her eyes at that but obeyed, the SUV so tall that she had to give a little hop to make it up to the seat.

"I apologize for not assisting you," Erik said while watching her uncoordinated attempt. "But I doubt any of us would appreciate being ticketed for parking in a red zone."

Christine gave a quiet snort. "No, somehow I don't think that would go over well."

Ms. Poligny gave a groan behind them, muffled though it was by the gag still pulled taut between her lips.

Belatedly, Christine realized that they were not simply belted into the seats, but Erik had wrapped ropes about their chests to bind them to the captain's chairs as well.

"Isn't that a little excessive?" she asked, her tone slightly incredulous.

Erik did not bother looking behind him to see to what she referred, instead merging onto the street effortlessly. Christine was quite impressed given the large nature of the vehicle.

"Debienne was giving Ms. Poligny some rather hateful glances, and I thought it was best for them both to be alive when we reach our destination."

Christine gave them both another glance. "Oh," she murmured, recognizing yet again that Erik had perfectly reasonable explanations for the strange things he did.

"Yes, _oh_." The car gave a bleat of protest and Erik's gaze finally shifted from the road in front of him. "You are not wearing your safety belt," he reprimanded gently. "While I am an excellent driver, I am not inclined to take any chances with your wellbeing."

Christine hastened to comply, her cheeks flaming somewhat at having forgotten such a rudimentary precaution. The moment she had fastened it the unhappy car quieted, and she shifted about in her seat, trying to find a comfortable place to keep the strap.

When was the last time she had even been in a car?

She honestly couldn't remember.

Maybe it was when she was taken from the apartment after her papa had been killed. Hadn't the social workers come, telling her gently to pack because she would not be permitted to stay?

That whole time was such a muddled mess of tears and moments of complete apathy, and she supposed she had gotten to the group home somehow.

But she had never been able to afford a car herself, and the buses did not require the use of seat belts, so she figured it was understandable that she had forgotten it.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going now?"

Erik hummed and switched lanes, their location revealing nothing to her of their final destination. "Did you enjoy your time outside? You were not too cold?"

"No, not too cold. The coat you picked is very nice," she complimented, diverting from his first enquiry. She had enjoyed herself to an extent, but the loneliness and strange feelings that were stirred at watching the other people go about their lives made it somewhat less sweet that she had expected. And instead of trying to explain what she did not fully comprehend herself, perhaps it was better to keep to safer topics.

"How did you pick all those things anyway? Everything fits very nicely, and you couldn't have known my sizes." Especially the underthings. But she couldn't bring herself to mention those by name just yet.

Erik's lips thinned, and she could tell that her question had made him uncomfortable.

"Erik?"

"You likely will not appreciate the answer."

Christine frowned. "Did you come in my apartment while I was away? And look at the sizes?"

He shook his head minutely, and she sighed. "Then what did you do?"

"I... assessed you."

She sat quietly for a moment, having not the least idea what he could be referring to. "What on earth does that mean?"

Erik sighed, and glanced in the backseat for the first time, and she realized belatedly that perhaps she should have waited to bring up these matters until they were alone.

But finally, with lips thinned and with an unwilling set to his mouth, he answered her. "I built my home, you know. I designed it, I planned it, and I implemented it. It is quite impressive, is it not?"

He glanced at her briefly, his eyes full of expectation, and there was no denying how magnificent his underground home truly was, despite its unfortunate location and lack of windows.

"You know it is. There is nothing like it."

He looked immensely pleased by that, and it occurred to her that he wanted her to approve of such things—both of his work in general and of _him_ for doing it.

And felt another moment's guilt that for even a few seconds she had thought that he had killed the two murderers behind them.

"One is not a true architect unless scale and measure are fully ingrained within the mind. So to answer your question, Christine, I _looked_ at you. And from that assessment, I was able to determine which items would fit you most adequately."

Christine sat back in her seat and watched the road for a bit, processing his confession. He'd _looked_ at her? As in... while she was sleeping? Or did he mean that during the trial, while she was so focused on each bit of testimony so she could best determine his guilt or innocence, he sat there watching her, dreaming about taking her to his underground home and already plotting her sizes, even the most intimate ones.

He allowed her to sit in silence for a time, but eventually his voice interrupted her musings.

"I have upset you," he affirmed, his tone somewhat mournful but also seemingly unsurprised.

"No… I…" she took a deep breath and released it slowly. "If that's what you are—an architect, I mean—you could hardly help… noticing."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I did not look upon you lustfully, if that is your concern."

She smiled grimly, hating how grateful she was that he had eased her mind on that score. When would she begin to think the best of him, instead of assuming the worst?

_Time._

That was what she needed. Time to know him, to understand him better, and hopefully he would have patience and not grow too upset with her when her doubts once again surfaced.

But still, it pained her to see how it hurt him when he caught her thinking the worst, and she was so very tired of causing him discomfort.

It didn't seem like justice for his ill-conceived kidnapping—it only felt like she was like all the other people who had wronged him in his past.

"That is a very great gift you have," she tried again, hoping to smooth over another of her fumbles. "To be able to notice such detail so easily."

Erik shrugged. "It does not seem so when it disturbs you so."

Christine fidgeted slightly in her seat. "I'm sorry, Erik," she offered truthfully. "I know… you're doing so much for me, and I must seem ungrateful."

"No," he answered firmly. "I do not think that. You are... far too good to me as it is, and it merely serves as a reminder that I have much to make up for."

She wanted to protest. To tell him that she had forgiven him for drugging her, and for taking her, and frightening her so very much in the beginning.

But had she?

Christine still resented it deeply. She did not think that she would ever forget the terror at waking in his home for the first time, the horror that had filled her when a masked man had appeared by her bedside.

Yet still it had lost some of its potency, now that she had a better understanding of Erik's own nervousness and fear as he waited for her to awaken. Fully expectant of her utter rejection, yet perhaps also hopeful that she would be different than everyone else who had been so cruel towards him.

"Do you regret doing it?"

She did not clarify what for the sake of their companions in the back, not wanting anyone to know the circumstances behind her being with Erik. That was strictly between the two of them, and she did not want any undue influence trying to make her feel badly for any choices she would make in future in regard to him.

Erik eased the car to a stop when the light turned red, and she noted that they were nestled between a row of office buildings. Were they close?

He turned toward her, his eyes solemn but also pleading, and before he even spoke she knew his answer.

"I regret many things, Christine. Things that would shock you to hear of them. But I can never regret these days with you. And I... I hope you will not hate me too much for it."

The light changed and he pulled forward, this time turning into a large underground parking garage that twirled downward in a neat spiral, Erik passing many empty places evidently in a desire to go as deep into the ground as possible.

She bemusedly wondered if he felt more comfortable there, simply because it felt more like home.

Erik put the car in park and removed the key from the ignition, although it did not look like any key she had ever known. When had cars changed so drastically?

He wouldn't look at her again, and she realized that he was waiting for some pronouncement on her part. She took the strange key from him and fiddled with its smooth lines, nothing about it even resembling her key to her apartment. "I've never seen anything like this. Never even imagined it," she murmured lowly. "Things keep changing and I don't have a say, and sometimes... sometimes I wish very much that they could go back to the way they were. Where things were simple and familiar and there's comfort in that, I think."

She glanced up to find him staring at her, his eyes so wide and vulnerable.

"But that doesn't mean that the newness can't be wonderful too, once I'm used to it. It might just be intimidating in the beginning, and it might take me a while to understand it all."

Christine hoped he understood. She hoped that he knew that she referred not just to the car, but to their own difficult circumstances.

"It doesn't mean that I'm unhappy with the results."

And with a long sigh that seemed to come from his very soul, he smiled at her, earnest and beautiful in its timidity, and she offered one in return.

How could she not?

But then Ms. Poligny gave another groan from the backseat and he shook his head, his lips thinned once again, and he held out his hand for the strange key before exiting the car.

She thought he would disappear and complete whatever business had brought them here, but instead he came around to her side and opened the door. "Let us be free of our guests, shall we? I tire of their company."

Christine nodded, and made to hop down from the car.

Only to be stopped by his hands gripping her waist, and easing her down gently, her breath catching in her throat as he did so.

He ceased any contact with her as soon as he was sure of her footing, and she did not know why such a little thing should have caused her heart to beat so quickly and her stomach to give an uncomfortable flutter.

What was wrong with her?

She was given time to collect herself, however, as Erik produced a spray bottle and cloth from within the glove compartment, plying a generous amount of unknown liquid onto the rag before wiping down her side of the cab—seat belt, handle, arm rest, all of it.

"Should I be insulted?" she queried, not truly meaning it, but curious as to what he was doing.

"I would prefer that you were not," he answered, lastly wiping the handle on the outside before replacing his cleaning supplies and shutting the door firmly. "I am merely divesting the scene of any physical evidence." He raised a hand and wriggled his long fingers. "Some of us wear gloves and make the cleaning unnecessary."

Christine crossed her arms and scowled, though it lacked any true feeling on her part. "Well _some_ of us did not know we would be making a field trip when they got dressed this morning!"

Erik stilled and turned to her, his eyes assessing as they seemingly tried to ascertain the seriousness of her displeasure.

His head tilted ever so slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing, and she tried very hard to keep her expression firm, but failed miserably as soon as the corners of her mouth began to twitch the longer he continued to stare.

Erik smirked, and she wanted to flounce away in a huff. Doubly so when he looked a little smug and pulled out the strange key again and with a push of the button and a flourish of his hand, the doors made the telling click that signaled their _guests_ were now locked within.

"Shouldn't we have cracked a window or something? So they don't suffocate?"

Erik mumbled something under his breath, but refused to divulge what he had said even when she asked him. "They will be fine, Christine. They are not dogs, and as you can readily ascertain for yourself, the air is quite cool."

Christine gave an uncertain glance back at the car, but she decided not to press the matter. She had already second guessed Erik too many times today, and she would not do so again but assuming he meant to suffocate them both while they went... wherever they were going.

A niggling voice of caution echoed through her mind. City Hall wasn't around here, was it? He couldn't be thinking of them... marrying, could he?

While she had decided that she had no desire to press charges against him, and it was a bit ridiculous to deny that she felt things toward him, by no means was she ready to pledge herself to him.

But he had extended his arm to her, and as he had already pointed out, it was quite chilly down here on the lower levels of the garage, so with one hand tucked firmly into the pocket of her coat, she allowed the other to nestle into the crook of his arm.

And she did not miss the small smile that played at Erik's lips whenever she acquiesced to his silent entreaty.

She didn't bother asking again where they were going, instead allowing her to lead them to a large elevator, his gloved hand selecting a floor as dreary music filtered through ancient speakers.

Erik's smile fell immediately.

"It's not that bad," she placated, and his look of disbelief was enough to make her laugh.

"Then in addition to dinner, I owe you a performance as well, so you would not suggest such a thing ever again."

She'd rather forgotten about her suggestion of dinner—had truthfully thought that her allowance of a larger breakfast had negated her previous offer—but evidently Erik still planned on cooking.

And as her stomach reminded her that she was late in providing lunch, the idea of a large dinner was not unappealing.

The elevator came to a jarring halt, and had the little number above the doors not illuminated the correct floor, she would have assumed that it had decided to freeze of its own accord.

The heavy doors slid open, revealing a neat and tidy law office, the names of numerous partners sprawled along the back wall, a pretty receptionist seated to welcome them.

Her welcoming smile faltered as she took in Erik's mask, but it did not fall completely.

"May I help you?" she asked, her voice thin.

Christine's own lips thinned in annoyance, but forced herself to remember that in everyday life, a masked man appearing generally heralded terrible things, so a dose of caution was warranted.

But that did not seem to quell her desire to protect Erik's delicate feelings.

"If you prove capable of sufficient brain capacity for such a task, you could direct us to Mr. Chagny's office."

Erik's lawyer? Christine hadn't expected that, but it certainly boded well for the two locked away in the car to be dealt with in some measure of lawfulness, instead of Erik's cool proficiency she was coming to expect.

The girl's mouth dropped open before she quickly shut it again, pointing a trembling finger toward the left hallway. "Last door on the right," she urged.

Erik did not speak to her again, merely ushering Christine gently in the direction she had given.

"That was rude," Christine commented, not entirely certain who she meant to chastise.

Erik merely sniffed in response.

The office itself was clean and gave all the appearance of a successful practice, but there was also something of a facade about it. The fabrics were a bit too flimsy, the carpets a tad too industrial...

And she was reminded of Mr. Changy's strange attire, as he tried so hard to be considered professional, while something was never quite right.

His ties for one.

And with a smirk she realized she was looking forward to seeing which he wore today. Or did he save his particularly ostentatious options for the courtroom?

The doors to the offices were all glass, and Christine briefly wondered at how they afforded any privacy when every client could be easily seen from across the hallway.

Mr. Chagny was seated at his desk, jotting down hasty notes onto a yellow pad as files threatened to escape their messy piles stationed about him. A red faced woman tried unsuccessfully to settle a displeased child by bouncing it on her lap, all while trying to convey her case to the bedraggled lawyer over the incessant crying.

Erik frowned at the sight, and she didn't know which part in particular offended him. Did he not like children? Or simply that Mr. Chagny was on conference?

"We can always wait," Christine suggested. "There were chairs in the lobby."

Erik stared down at her incredulously. "I think not."

They moved a bit more inward, positioned just so that there was no mistaking their presence as Erik stared into the room, a looming shadow of black over the woman's shoulder for whenever Mr. Chagny would look up and take notice.

Christine, however, felt terribly awkward, and much preferred to stare at the errant smudges on the otherwise clean doors, avoiding any eye contact with the occupants inside.

It did not take long for Mr. Chagny to pause in his writing and glance upward, his eyes drifting to Erik and his face visibly paling.

He rose quickly from his seat and without a word to his other client, opened his door and stepped into the hall. "Erik?"

"Chagny," Erik answered, giving the barest of nods in acknowledgment. "Busy day?"

"What... what are you doing here?" He glanced down at Christine and frowned, and she took a cautious step behind Erik. Would it mean trouble if he recognized her?

"What is this about?"

"The truth," Erik stated simply, producing a small flash drive from one of his numerous pockets and offering it to the attorney. "Something for you to consider, and possibly pass on to your brother in the prosecutor's office. Perhaps he will prove to have more sense than that fool Sorelli."

Mr. Chagny grimaced, but his interest was definitely perked as he took the proffered evidence. "Philippe is a good man," he confirmed. "But Erik, what is this? What have you been up to? I thought we agreed you'd keep out of trouble and the charges would not be filed a second time."

Erik smirked, a dangerous look in his eyes. "I am not one for waiting."

Mr. Chagny sighed, and glanced at Christine again. "She was a juror. Did you plant her somehow?"

Erik snorted, a rather undignified sound coming from him. "Hardly. But you needn't concern yourself about her." He pulled out the odd key to the SUV and handed it over as well. "There's something in there of a time sensitive nature, located on Level Seven. Although I'd suggest looking at that first," he said, gesturing toward flash drive, "lest your pity be provoked unnecessarily."

Mr. Chagny gave a wary glance down the hallway, and to Christine's relative surprise, he kept his composure quite well. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Yes," Erik replied. "Forget you ever saw her."

And then he took her by the hand, and started to lead her back down the hallway.

But not before she had had turned back and addressed the bemused looking man. "I like your tie!" she stated cheerily, the bright blue paisley demanding recognition.

And she merely grinned at Erik's perturbed glance and Mr. Chagny's bewildered expression, and allowed him to escort her from the building.

* * *

Sooo... Our Erik needs to work on his sense of humor, don't you think? Making Christine run like that. And we have the return of Mr. Chagny! Hopefully he can get his brother to provide a true and honest prosecution this time. Were you expecting him to show up again? Did you think Erik handled their sentencing well? And Christine seems to be getting cheekier...

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	29. Chapter 29

You know, sometimes I sit down to write one thing and something... completely different comes out. This was one of those chapters. Sooo... not quite what I had planned, but... here it is!

Onward!

* * *

XXIX

"I don't know why you looked so aghast at me for saying that," Christine chastised as they were once more in the seclusion of the elevator. "I was only teasing."

Erik gave her a disgruntled look, and she was once again reminded that his displeasure was more than just for show. "I would prefer that you would not allow such teasing to be directed at other men. Especially not ones that I have already..."

He quieted quickly, and Christine waited for him to continue.

Only to be greatly disappointed when he looked away from her entirely with a sniff and she was left wanting.

"You already what?"

He continued to say nothing.

Christine sighed and gave a tug at his sleeve, not liking how he simply dismissed her enquiry. "Erik, that's not fair. You can't just say that and not finish your thought. What did you already do?"

His lips thinned into a frown, and she didn't like him looking at her that way—his exasperation obvious. "I have already told him that he was not to have further contact with you, and he might take your _teases_ as encouragement. Should you like to encourage him, Christine? Did you like it when he touched you?"

The elevator moved steadily downward, but before they could reach their final floor, Christine reached over and gave the emergency stop a tug, trapping them inside as a brief alarm signaled their nonexistent distress.

She had never done such a thing—it had never occurred to her that there would be a circumstance where she would consider it. Yet she had done it, and even as Erik moved to release the tab and continue their movement, she covered the panel with her back and blocked his view.

He could move her easily, she knew. If he had truly wanted to, nothing she could have done would have impeded his intent. But rather than move her bodily, he leaned against the other side of the elevator, his arms crossed and his expression one of grave annoyance.

"Erik, tell me what you're talking about."

Still he remained silent, his eyes narrowed and his gaze settling somewhere over her head.

Her own irritation rising, she tried to remember what he could be referring to. She'd had very little contact with the lawyer other than the initial questions he had asked when she'd been selected. They hadn't spoken in the courtroom other than when she'd approached Erik and told him of her gladness that he hadn't been found guilty. But other than that...

And then she remembered.

That alarming conversation with the security guard, her abrupt turn...

Which made her fall quite literally into Mr. Chagny's arms.

But how did Erik know about it?

She vaguely remembered their whispered conversations, the first time she had ever seen Erik engage vocally with someone that had at least allayed her concerns that he was incapable of doing so—despite the fact that she could not hear what was said.

"You're talking about him catching me when I fell?"

If anything, Erik's eyes hardened further.

Christine sighed deeply. "Erik, I'm not going to apologize for that, no matter how much you glare at me. He was kind enough to help me, otherwise I would have fallen and probably bruised something. Is that what you want? That I'd be hurt rather than have another man steady me?"

His eyes narrowed. "I would never have suggested such a thing."

Christine scoffed at that, although she tried to keep her temper. "Erik, you had Joe transferred for asking me out on a date. Apparently you also gave Mr. Chagny a bad time for having any contact with me at all. I'm not a possession!"

Erik took a hurried step forward, and suddenly she remembered to whom she spoke, and she regretted immediately having raised her voice.

But when he took hold of her arm there was nothing painful in his grasp, except for where her heart ached at the hurt in his expression.

"Is that what you think? That I would guard you as some treasure, ever covetous as I lock you away from sight so that only I may enjoy you?"

Christine gave a shrug, unsure of how to answer. "You did kidnap me," she supplied weakly, the argument an old one.

Erik chuckled incredulously. "I most certainly did. Heaven forbid we forget my error in judgment. That we never again should have a moment's peace because I could bear the thought that another man was there to catch you, to woo you, while I was locked away from you. While I had nothing but my hopes for what we could have. I took away your choice and therefore I must be the worst kind of monster."

Christine swallowed, hating how sarcastic he sounded, yet there was a vein of earnestness in it as well. As if some part of him, no matter how small, actually believed it.

"Erik, I don't think that."

"Do you not? I wonder sometimes. I have given you opportunities to leave, have I not? And yet you remain. But do you do so because you fear the reprisal, or because you actually have come to enjoy some part of my company?"

She hadn't wanted to speak of this now. All of it was still too confusing for her to discuss it with him, especially while they were trapped within the confines of an elevator. She hadn't the least idea of when a repairman would be called—or was it a fireman? It all seemed foolish and petty, and she should have waited... waited until they were back home, back where things were comfortable, and she knew better than to accuse instead of gently approach him, reminding him of the importance of honesty between them.

But he was taking her silence as confirmation of his deepest fears, as he gave a pained nod and released his hold on her, turning away to stare at the farthest side of the elevator. "Of course," he murmured miserably. "I was a fool to think it could be anything else."

Christine nibbled at her lip, hating that things could get bungled up so quickly. She took a careful step toward him and laid a hand upon his wool covered shoulder. "Some people would say you're controlling. That I... that because I want to stay with you, that something must be wrong with me."

Erik hung his head wretchedly, and that part of her, that sympathetic part that had reached out to him in the earliest days of the courtroom, remembered him and wanted to soothe all of his terrible hurts.

"But I... I want to be truthful with you, Erik. And it frightens me how you react when another man pays attention to me. I worry for what it might mean in the future. I worry that maybe there really is something wrong with me, that I could... want to be with you so very much."

He stiffened beneath her hand, and when he glanced over his shoulder to look at her, it was with such guarded hopefulness that it made her want to cry. "You... you wish to stay with me?"

Christine hesitated, the choice too monumental for the confines of an elevator. "It is something I have been considering, yes. To simply forgive you and... and to live with you down below. But then something like this happens and I worry that I'm being naive about what that would really mean—that other than being one of the sweetest men I've ever known, that maybe my judgment is faulty and..." she sighed and her hand fell away from him, not wanting to finish the thought.

She'd blessedly never experienced it herself, but she'd heard enough stories from her coworkers about controlling and possessive men who took out their jealousies on the women they claimed to love.

And she wanted no part of it.

Would Erik ever do such a thing to her?

Her heart screamed _no_, even as her mind insisted that she be cautious. She had not known him for very long, not really, and evidently they both still required time to trust one another.

Erik faced her fully, his eyes wide and pleading, and she noted how his hands trembled slightly. Did he wish to comfort her with his touch, yet refrained? She almost wished he would.

"But do you not see? If you were mine, if you were to consent to be mine and I knew that you stayed with me because you... you loved me... I would have no need to fear! For you are a good, honest, kind girl and you would never be unfaithful."

Christine smiled sadly. "I'm glad you think so well of me, but I don't think that's the best way to start a relationship. You don't have someone as your girlfriend just to take her off the market."

Erik's expression turned to one of supreme distaste. "I do not want you for my _girlfriend_."

She would have been hurt by that—she nearly was. He said it so earnestly, and it took her a moment to realize that he meant he wanted her for more...

She swallowed and walked back to the elevator panel and pushed the emergency button, the elevator beginning its descent once more with only the barest of lurches.

It was clear from the beginning that Erik didn't know how to have real relationships. So why did it surprise her so that he did not know the way of courtship?

He'd told her before that he wanted to be the one to ask her on dates, to woo her affections much as she had agreed Joe could have done, but evidently he was a bit clumsy in the execution.

Erik watched her warily from his resumed place on the far side of the elevator, and as the doors dinged their welcome to the lobby as they opened, he made no move to vacate them first.

Christine sighed, warring with herself, before holding out her hand to him.

"Aren't you going to escort me?"

And with simply that his shuttered expression gentled, and he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm as they vacated the lift.

Yet there were things still unsaid, matters still so unresolved, that things felt awkward between them.

And it surprised her how much she hated it.

"Erik," Christine asked, hoping that a change of subject would ease the uneasy feeling in her stomach. "How will we get back without the car?"

He peered down at her, her hand still tucked in his arm as they passed the receptionist, who merely continued to flip through her magazine rather than give them any attention.

Christine decided she preferred being ignored rather than the open stare than the other girl had given them.

Erik was quiet for a moment, apparently considering whether or not he should actually reveal such things to her.

"There are several options," he finally answered. He opened the large glass door and held it ajar, his hand brushing the small of her back as she passed him.

"Such as?" she prompted.

The day had grown darker during their sojourn into the law office, dusk rapidly giving way to evening, despite what she knew to still be early in the day. Winter was beginning to settle over the city, the days growing short, her stomach reminding her that while not yet dinnertime, lunch was woefully absent.

"The first is that we walk," Erik offered, not too distasteful of an option. It hadn't seemed so very far from the theatre, but she was starting to grow anxious about Boo being alone for so long. "But you have already spent a great deal of time in the cold, and I am uncertain of the wisdom in such a venture."

Christine would have argued—she had walked home from work in much colder weather than this, without the benefits of such a warm coat, or shoes whose soles had begun to peel away from age and use.

But she rather thought he would see such things as further evidence that he was morally obligated to keep her with him for always, and he most assuredly did not need further excuses for his actions.

Even when she was beginning to believe some of them herself.

"Then what's the next option?"

They were still situated under the canopy covering the entrance to the building, shielded somewhat from the flakes of new snow that fell, seeking to hide away the dirt and grime of the street with something pure.

Yet Christine was well aware that until a true storm hit, it would merely turn a putrid grey as it mixed into an icy slurry.

"I place you in a taxi and you may wait for me at the theatre."

Christine frowned. "That seems silly. I'll still be waiting for you outside because you locked the door when we left."

Some tension in his shoulders dissipated at her rejection of that plan, and she realized that he must have feared that she would not in fact be waiting for him. Not after the almost-fight they'd just had.

She had no words to comfort him, the lump in her throat too great as she tried not to show how much it pained him that he so expected to be abandoned, despite her assurances that she cared for him. But she did rub the inside of his covered elbow with her thumb, hoping that even that small gesture would imbue him with some sort of reassurance.

Whether or not she found a way to regain her freedom, she could not imagine simply disappearing—of hurting him in that way. It wasn't a matter of escaping, not anymore, but of deciding whether or not she wanted to coax him into letting her go.

Something she wasn't sure was worth the effort.

"Can't you just come with me? In the taxi, I mean?"

Erik's lips pulled into a sorry semblance of a smile. "I would be most pleased to be your riding companion, Christine, although you may wish to rescind the offer when it becomes difficult to find a driver willing to take a masked passenger."

Oh.

She hadn't considered that.

"Well, we should at least try," she reasoned. "I'm sure money goes a long way with such things."

Erik snorted at that. "Yes, I do believe in this instance you are right."

To Christine's amazement, the first two taxis that slowed toward the curb, did indeed speed away when they caught sight of Erik's mask. Each time she would glance back at Erik worriedly, only to find that he was studying the pavement, not even bothering with a triumphant look of _I told you so_.

The third however pulled to a full stop, the driver giving them barely a glance before asking for their destination.

The address Erik gave didn't sound quite right, and while Christine was fairly familiar with the city, the only street names that really mattered to her were those that related to her bus stops to and from work.

The cabbie gave surreptitious glances into the backseat via the rearview mirror, and Christine felt very uncomfortable by the entire thing. The car was a small one, and Erik's frame took up much more room than she had realized before.

And while Erik strove for a relaxed appearance, the tension in his body was palpable beside her.

She was surprised then when he leaned closer and whispered in her ear. "We are both bathing when we are once again home."

For a brief moment she was alarmed at his suggestion—_together?—_but with a quiet chuckle she watched as he peered about the cab with a look of disgruntlement, obviously displeased at having to be in an enclosed space available to the common man.

"That might interfere with you making me dinner," she replied, not entirely certain he would still want to, but her stomach insisting that it was a very grand idea.

Erik grew thoughtful. "Not if I am very quick."

Christine smiled. "Fair enough."

The cab driver did not attempt to make conversation, for which Christine was glad, although when he announced the cost when they came to a stop outside a building that did not remotely resemble the theatre, the price seemed exorbitant.

Yet Erik paid it with no argument, despite the meter clearly showing a differing total.

"But he was gouging you!"

Erik took her hand and placed it on his arm, guiding her through an alley that she would have been far too nervous to have traversed on her own. "Yes, he was. And if I was alone I would have argued the point, but as it stands I would rather him not remember a pretty girl and a dangerous figure who _convinced_ him that his rates were ridiculous. Sometimes it is best to be cautious."

Christine still didn't like it, but she hesitated before arguing further. "You mean... in case he's called as a witness? If the police get the evidence of our trial and want to investigate you again about the... kidnappings?"

Erik looked at her oddly at her acknowledgement that the trial had been theirs, but it was true enough. For better or worse, she had participated. And when it came to the law she was fairly certain it would be for worse.

"Is that why we're not at the Opera House? If he does get called, you don't want him to know where we're actually staying?"

Erik gave a short nod. "Prudence is typically best in such matters. As it stands, he has dropped a strange man and his companion at a club known for their... eccentricities. That hardly would arouse suspicion."

Christine looked back over her shoulder, not having noted anything particularly strange about the place. But it was early yet, and she shuddered to think of what she might have seen if it had been any later in the day.

"Do you... know from personal experience?"

She tried to make her question sound casual, but even to her own ears, her voice sounded strained. She couldn't picture Erik in such a place, couldn't picture him surrounded by people at all really, but there was so much she still didn't know about him.

But he merely gave her another exasperated glance, and sniffed disdainfully. "I should think not. Knowledge of a location is not nearly the same as admission of participation. Do be serious, Christine."

She nibbled her lip, feeling chastened.

The evening was getting cooler and the wind was beginning to pick up as they exited the shadows of the alley and emerged on the main boulevard that boasted the theatre as a prominent feature. She was gladdened by the sight of the familiar building, but as another gust nipped about her ears, she couldn't help but shiver and move just a bit closer to Erik.

He was not a particularly warm figure, his person seeming to exude cooler temperatures than she would have expected a body capable, but his tall frame helped cut the wind. And other than a surprised glance down at her, he did not seem to object to her closeness at all.

"We are nearly there," he offered comfortingly. "But if you are too cold, I would be happy to supply you my coat as well."

Christine pressed her nose against his sleeve, hoping that the soft wool would imbue it with some warmth. "No, but thank you, Erik. I wouldn't want you to get too cold. If either of us got sick, somehow I think you'd be a far better nurse than I would prove to be."

Erik stopped suddenly at that, his expression rather horrified. "While of course you would receive the utmost care for any ailment, if you believe you are in danger of contracting an illness then you should tell me so at once!" His arm fell away from his grasp as his hands began to neatly unbutton his outer coat, but she stopped them with a smile.

"Really, Erik, it's fine. And I'm serious; I want you to be warm too. Just next time we go out for a jaunt, I need to be sure to bring a scarf and gloves too."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You are certain?"

"Yes!" she answered him with a laugh. "And the more you keep asking, the longer we're standing out here, so let's go home!"

She hadn't meant to refer to it as such. It was merely a slip of the tongue and not something she was prepared to dwell on for long. But as Erik's eyes, which in the light seemed nearly color-less they were so pale, now seemed to almost glow a luminescent gold, fervent and so very pleased by what she had said.

She swallowed thickly. "I..."

"Yes, let us go home, Christine," Erik interrupted silkily, his own hand doing up his coat buttons while the other was once more proffered to her. "I believe I have been remiss in providing you proper nourishment, something I mean to rectify immediately."

And she could do nothing but obey, for while she might not have meant to declare his underground dwelling as such, she could no longer deny to herself that it also felt so very right to refer to it as such.

And perhaps that should frighten her more than it currently did.

* * *

Sooo... I had planned to write a very romantic date for these two... but instead they ended up having a tiff in an elevator. But perhaps learning how to work through these things will help them in the long run, yes? So what do you think, what Christine brave or silly for trapping Erik like that?


	30. Chapter 30

Remember that sweet date that was supposed to be forthcoming? Yeaahh...

I feel the need to put a warning in this chapter. The next will deal more fully with the issue (but _not _explicitly by any stretch of the imagination), but we're heading into some uncomfortable waters. I'll put another heads up next chapter but for now... consider yourselves warned!

Onward!

* * *

XXX

True to his word, Erik disappeared as soon as they entered his underground home, and Christine supposed it was to scrub away the taint of the taxi from his person. Doubtless his suit and coat would suffer the same fate shortly as well. She would also follow his suggestion, but not before scooping up the mewing Boo who loudly protested being left alone for so long.

"I'm very sorry, handsome. But now those horrid people are gone and we don't have to go out ever again!"

It was probably as wrong to lie to a cat as it was to a human person, but he kept blinking at her so reproachfully, and she found she would promise him anything to ensure he was happy.

Did Erik feel that way too, only when she was the one blinking and discontented?

She wondered if she should feel guilty for that or not.

She carried Boo to the kitchen and set him down on the floor so she could see to feeding him, giggling as he nudged against her ankles as he prompted her to move more quickly.

"You at least had crunchies while I was away! I'm the one who's half starved!"

"An ailment I mean to alleviate very soon."

Christine yelped, not at all expecting him to appear so quickly. Perhaps he had not bathed after all? But his hair was slightly damp and the lapels of his suit were just the tiniest bit different.

"How do you do things so quickly?"

Erik sniffed and walked to a cupboard, fetching a bowl and can of food for Boo. "How do you do things so slowly," he quipped back.

Christine pouted but tried to hide it by picking up Boo and burying her face in his silky fur. She wanted to say that she did things as a normal person would, but that felt mean and hurtful, and she'd said far too many things that were so to consider allowing the words to find purchase in the open air.

Seeing that Erik was now the one tending to him, Boo wriggled in her arms, and with a sigh she relented and placed him on the little platform Erik had procured for him, his bowl soon to follow, little pink tongue lapping in appreciation.

"You're determined to make him like you more than me."

Erik's eyes glittered. "Perhaps."

Christine wanted to hit him.

But instead she huffed and crossed her arms, feeling a great sulk coming on.

She really was hungry.

Erik must have noted her posture for he sought to smooth her rankled nerves with comforting words. "You were the first person to have cared for him, Christine. No one could ever replace you in his affections."

She softened at that somewhat, and was much more willing to obey his suggestion that she bathe while he prepared them dinner. "Do try to keep from drowning," he drolled, his face obscured by a cupboard door as he inspected its contents. "You do take so long I begin to worry for your safety."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I'll certainly do my best."

To drown herself or to keep from doing so, she wasn't exactly sure.

Her stomach would keep her from taking very long, but still, the prospect of a bath was lovely, and she searched through her wardrobe until she found some pants that might have been pajamas, or perhaps they were merely created for lounging about in swathes of softness. She didn't mind if that was their sole purpose. A t-shirt completed the ensemble, a much more casual outfit than the rest of what Erik had chosen for her. But she was ready to be cozy, and she had a feeling that if their conversation turned to where she expected it would, at least her skin could be comfortable even if the rest of her proved not to be.

She looked about the bath, searching for any sign that Erik had used it. His home was the epitome of secluded, and she had begun to wonder at the sense of having more than one bathroom, yet the door was always open when she needed it, no sign of another person attempting to make use of the facilities.

She'd never seen his room, so maybe he had simply built it with multiple bathrooms?

Yet another question that she somehow doubted he would answer.

The water filled quickly thanks to those luxurious taps, but she did not fill it overly high lest she be tempted to ignore her hunger and float for a while.

She really would need to take more time for her hair, but instead she set to washing it as well, knowing it would be contained in yet another braid before she returned to the kitchen.

Ablutions finished, and the drapey pants of softness donned as well as the rest of her clothes, she returned to find Erik topping perfectly circular pans of dough with... pizza toppings?

"What's this?" she asked with amusement.

Erik turned and gave her an incredulous look. "Surely this is not beyond your palate that you cannot identify it."

Christine laughed. "No, but I never thought I'd see you making one. You're so..." She waved her hand in a vague gesture of his person.

Erik stiffened. "What am I?"

Christine barely resisted rolling her eyes at him yet again. "Formal. You're formal. From your speech to your clothes, there is no other word for it."

He blinked at her. "And this… displeases you?"

Already she could tell he was thinking of how he could change. How he could force levity into his voice and search through databases of slang until he sounded more like people their age. Her age? How old was he anyway?

But the truth was, she liked the way he spoke. That formalness was what prompted him to carry handkerchiefs and offer his arm to her when they walked, and the thought of him becoming just like everybody—utterly normal in every sense of the word—seemed… wrong.

But that also seemed horribly selfish since it was clear that he wanted nothing more than to act normal. To _be _normal.

She took a step nearer, any laughter gone as she tried to make her tone as sincere as possible. "Not in the least," she replied earnestly. "I quite like you as you are. And that you're making pizza for me when you clearly never would make it for yourself."

He glanced down at his concoction and his lips thinned. "It is a messy food," he complained.

Christine smiled. "Yes, it is. And half the fun is trying to get it in your mouth without toppings going everywhere."

Erik shifted uncomfortably, and she sobered just as quickly. "Do you... are you self-conscious when you eat?"

She hadn't thought about it before—that there was a reason he wouldn't take a meal with her. But she supposed that a lot of people were concerned with how they looked when they ate. Many times she would catch a couple on their first date, the woman taking unnaturally small bites and trying to be covert as she pulled out a compact mirror to check her teeth for anything offensive. The men however typically didn't seem as concerned, but with Erik...

She was learning that there was nothing typical about him.

Erik's shoulder hunched ever so slightly inward. "Corpses should not eat."

And her heart broke for him.

For what person would come up with such a dreadful thing by themselves?

"Who told you that?" her voice sharper than she intended.

He looked at her in surprise. "It does not matter."

Christine didn't believe that for a moment. It mattered very much. If it had come from a random passerby on the street it would have been hurtful, but for it to be so ingrained in Erik's mind as truth…

Still angry and indignant for him, she forced her voice to soften as she laid a careful hand on his arm. "Was it one of your parents?"

And then it was he who was so very angry, his spine stiffening and his eyes, his pale, pale eyes that now seemed to burn with immeasurable pain, cut into her very soul as he stared down at her.

"Erik _had _no parents. Erik had a jailer! He had a woman who loathed him and hid him and hurt him whenever possible. And yet you say that I am your captor, but I do not starve you, or beat you, or…"

Christine's mouth was dry, and while his voice had risen, how the words were bitten out through years of carefully honed resentment, she knew that his ire was not directed at her. Not really.

She forced the words out, dread settling in her stomach even as she was fairly certain she already knew the answer. "Or what?"

Erik shook his head, his eyes pleading. "Please, Christine, there is no need to speak of it."

But there was need—_he _very clearly needed as his hands, his perfectly dexterous hands, trembled as he finished placing toppings on the nearly forgotten pizza, and he placed it in the oven.

She watched quietly as he washed his hands and seemed to collect more of himself as the silence continued.

And when the timer was set and he made to flee the room, she took his hand gently between hers.

She did not say anything, not at first. And she was so terribly sorry at how wide and fearful his eyes had become as she cradled his hand in hers—so much larger than her own!—and set to pulling off the black leather glove she had never seen him go without.

"What… what are you doing?" he murmured breathlessly. A man so sure of himself, reduced to stammering because of her.

She smoothed her fingers over his open palm, traced the lines that connected and swirled over the very tips, noting calluses that were so familiar after seeing her own papa's hands.

And then her fingers probed at his wrist, her pointer and middle searching and finding, the blue veins so prominent beneath his papery skin.

His heartbeat.

Wild and fluttering, but so very present.

She glanced upward and saw his throat bob ever so slightly as he swallowed, his nervousness palpable as she studied him. "Last I checked, corpses do not have heartbeats. Corpses are not gentle and kind and make pizza even though it's messy." She released his wrist and simply held his hand, trying to imbue as much compassion as she was able. "Corpses do not feel pain… and you carry much."

He flinched, and she was very sorry for what she had to ask next.

"What else was done to you, Erik?"

He wouldn't look at her. Wouldn't meet her eyes as he frowned down at the floor, his body tensed and coiled. He could pull away in an instant, that she knew, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

But he stayed, and when he spoke, his voice was low and flat, as if he no longer had the strength to infuse it with any emotion. "When first you came here, you feared that I would… that you would be violated."

He glanced up at her only briefly, and with some trepidation she gave the subtlest of nods.

Erik sighed deeply and pulled his hand away, the weariness he felt so evident in his posture. "Why would I hurt you in such a way when I know what it is to be tortured so?"

-X-

Dinner was not what she had hoped for only that morning. There was no easy chatter, no playful teasing as she tasted more of Erik's culinary prowess. Instead, Erik was utterly silent as he sat across from her at the table, a slice of pizza settled on a plate between a carefully placed knife and fork, though he touched none of it.

She made herself eat despite her sudden lack of appetite, but she could not seem to focus on the flavors and textures. In some part of her mind she knew it was delicious—that Erik had used the perfect amount of cheese to offset the sauce and chewy crust, but was not so much that it puddled unduly. That he'd used a balance of meats and vegetables so as not to overwhelm the palate.

Yet all she could think of was Erik as a boy, of how much he had endured while still in his most tender years.

And before she even realized she had done so, Erik sighed deeply and pushed his unused napkin toward her. "I seem to do nothing but put tears in your eyes."

Christine touched her cheek in surprise, indeed finding that some tears had escaped her without her notice. "I'm sorry," she apologized hastily, accepting his napkin and wiping away the evidence of her upset. "I shouldn't… I know you don't like it when I cry." She sniffled and plucked at her crust before she continued. "But you know that isn't true. You've made me smile much more than you've made me cry."

Erik did not appear wholly convinced, yet he nodded anyway.

Christine took one last bite and forced herself to swallow before standing and gathering up the plates. Erik made to protest, but she shook her head. "Let me help, Erik," she begged softly, welcoming anything that would push away the horrible images her mind conjured. Had it happened many times? Only once? But even once was too much. And to not have a loving parent to heal and provide desperately needed love and reassurance—to remind that goodness and mercy could be found in the world…

Was it any wonder that he now was so distrustful? That he clung to his dignity and his privacy when both had been so viciously taken from him?

She set about washing the dishes by hand, the act of cleaning a soothing one. Erik had protested when she wrapped the leftovers in plastic and tucked it into the fridge. "I shall make you fresh!" he insisted, but Christine had only smiled grimly and patted his arm before adding the pan to her sink of soap and water.

"And I would prefer not to waste what you've provided me."

He was quiet after that, allowing her to work and wash and dry, leaning against the far wall and watching carefully—for what she did not know.

When she was satisfied that the kitchen was in order, she turned back to him, trying to pull her thoughts together so she could offer him what comfort she could. But instead Erik suddenly stood to his full height and interjected, "You must be tired. You should rest."

Her brow furrowed. It was still early yet, and while there were days when she would come home from work and sleep for hours, the walking they had done today hardly constituted such.

Christine wanted to argue, to tell him that she would much prefer to sit and talk and hold his hand and tell him how sorry she was.

But maybe...

She swallowed.

As gently as possible, he was asking for privacy.

And she would be a brute indeed if she continued to bother him when he was the one exposing painful secrets to the scrutiny of another.

"Okay," she confirmed, still feeling uneasy at the exchange but willing to let him lead.

He nodded and she moved toward her bedroom, only to divert into the library for a moment. She could give him time if he so needed it, but she was not ready for sleeping and if she was left alone with nothing to do, she could most certainly spend the entire time imagining all sorts of horrors.

Her fingers fiddled with the switch on the wall, it taking her a moment to align her fingers just so before she was able to see well enough to select a few titles. Erik stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but she supposed that if he disapproved of her actions then he would have spoken up.

She would have liked him to explain his method of organization, and perhaps another day she would ask him for a proper tour of the space so she could better find something. Most of the titles were wholly unfamiliar, the authors equally unknown. The spines were mostly aged leather, also revealing little of the subject. So as soon as she found a low shelf cluttered with more familiar names like Brontë and Austen, she selected a few and hurried to her own room, worried she had taken too long already.

Maybe another day she would have complained about being escorted to her room like a prisoner with a warden. But Erik's words from earlier still sounded in her ears, guilt niggling at her as she considered how she had indeed viewed him over the course of her stay with him.

She bit her lip and made to say something—_anything_—but Erik simply gave a modest bow and shut the door as he left her alone in her room.

With books she didn't really want to read, with thoughts she didn't want to have, and with hands that still itched to reach out and comfort him.

But he wanted to be alone, probably to collect his own thoughts and she could respect that.

Maybe.

She curled up on the bed for a while, _Pride and Prejudice_ balanced on her knees as she forced her attention on the characters and their love story. And with a grimace she realized how most of their troubles stemmed from the horrors of miscommunication, just as hers did.

And when suddenly the most mournful sound came from outside her bedroom, she could stand it no longer.

She put down the book and went to the living room, thinking she would find Erik standing there with his violin in hand, the pain of his soul so easily communicated by the strings and his bow, the tragic lament to lost innocence and a final infliction of pain that assured his distrust of the entire human race.

But only Boo was there, washing away the remnants of his meal as he luxuriated in Erik's chair.

With great trepidation, she moved down the hallway, at last standing before the door that was ever closed to her, the music most definitely coming from within.

Erik's room.

She had felt such relief when he had told her that she was not to enter there, and at the time she had seen it as the blessing of some modicum of privacy and boundaries in an otherwise horrifying situation.

But now...

Now she wished that she felt confident enough to simply walk inside.

Instead she raised her hand and knocked. "Erik?"

The music continued, low, haunting tones creeping about her soul and making it ache in places she hadn't even imagined were there.

She tried again.

And still he did not answer.

Until finally she could bear it no longer and she tried the handle, only to find it locked.

"Erik, please," she entreated.

And the door opened.

His mask was no longer in place, and the evidence of his tears shone in the dim light of the room beyond.

"Oh, Erik," she murmured, and uncaring that he still held his violin and bow, she stepped forward across the threshold and wrapped her arms about him. "I'm so sorry for what you've had to go through. And I know I don't know all the details, but whatever happened was so very wrong and I..."

She sniffed, pushing away her own tears so she could best relay her thoughts to him without blubbering into his suit. "I'm sorry that I hurt you by thinking you would do something so terrible. I'm sorry that I haven't thanked you enough for being kind and gentle with me, for telling you how little that your face troubles me. I'm sorry that you don't yet feel comfortable to eat a meal with me for I... I should like it very much."

Her breath hitched when she felt his hand settled against her back, softly at first and growing more fervent as he held her to him, his head bowing until it lay across the top of her head. "I'm sorry that you believed those horrible people. You are not a corpse, sweet Erik. You're just a man, and one that I... I'm coming to… to hold in very high regard."

Christine kicked herself, as that was not at all what she needed to say, and was something much better suited to Austen and her merry band of characters.

She released a shaky breath and pulled away until she could look up at him, pushing forth the word before she could convince herself that it was a terrible idea.

That it was too soon.

That she was mad for even thinking it.

Yet even as she spoke it, she knew that it was true, and as his eyes widened in disbelief, she was glad that she found the courage to at long last be honest.

"That is to say… I think that I…"

She swallowed.

"That I love you."

* * *

Sooo... she loves him! Or at least she thinks she does... And she said it! Think she'll try to take it back immediately? Does it seem too soon? And what about poor Erik and a hinting at his past? We're going to delve a bit more into it next chapter... think Christine will be able to handle it? Will you?

Please review!


	31. Chapter 31

First of all, I'd like to welcome all my new readers! And it has come to my attention that somewhere in the shuffle (or did I just not mention it this story?), my policy for chapter previews for reviews is not well known! So yes, if you leave me a review, I will happily give you a snippet from the chapter to come, though I'm frequently told that can at times make the waiting all the more difficult...

Okay, the real warning goes on this chapter. We're wading into the murky depths of some of Erik's past and there is sadness to be found there. I will _not _go into an abundance of detail, so that should be some comfort at least. Please proceed with caution.

Onward?

* * *

XXXI

Erik stiffened, his hands once clutching and holding now rigid against her back.

"You… you what?"

Christine took a deep breath.

She hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't even really made a conscious decision that she _had_, let alone felt prepared to offer him assurances.

But despite her misgivings, her full acknowledgement that Erik was not at all a normal man nor were his actions always acceptable...

She had known love once.

It was a familial sort, but powerful.

And she had known its loss.

And when she thought of Erik, of leaving him, of doing what she was sure any other person would tell her to do as she fled from him and didn't look back...

It sent a piercing pain through her heart to simply consider it.

"I said that I... I love you."

Erik was silent for a moment and to her surprise, next she felt his hands leave her back as they sought her wrists, disengaging her from his person as he took a step backward. His eyes, still red and swollen from his tears, searched hers, and she tried to make her earnestness clear.

"You cannot," he finally stated firmly, yet also managing to sound despondent at the thought.

She blinked at him. "Why?"

His shoulders lowered, the weight of thoughts and years of torment seeming a physical burden upon them. "No one loves Erik. No one _can_ love Erik. Especially not someone that he has wronged so very much."

He released her wrists completely now, but she reached forward, grabbing his hand—still uncovered from her earlier ministrations. "People are allowed to be sorry, you know," she assured gently. "And those same people can also be forgiven."

Erik stared down at her incredulously. "But I wasn't sorry. I told you that. That I do not regret bringing you here, or the time that we shared. So how can you possibly offer forgiveness for what I have not sought?"

Christine sighed. "I think you are, in your way. I think you are very sorry for frightening me, for making me feel trapped. It's all right to want company, especially from someone you... you care about."

She wanted to say love... was very certain that he loved her back. But whenever they had spoken of his desires, it was always to _be_ loved... such a foreign and unknown concept for him.

Yet he had never said that he felt that way for her, and she wouldn't dare presume to force such a label upon it if he was not yet ready to do so.

"I am... unworthy," he whispered brokenly.

"I think you should let me be the judge of that. I'm the one with the gavel after all." She nudged him gently, playfully, and to her great relief the tiniest of smiles graced his lips.

"True," Erik acknowledged almost begrudgingly. "And you proved a very fine one."

"There now," she responded, unreasonably pleased by his praise. "So perhaps in this you can simply... believe me. I wouldn't lie to you, Erik. Not about something this important."

He stared at her a while longer, allowing her to hold his hand and offer what comfort she could through contact alone.

His skin was cool, his palms dry and rather papery beneath her fingertips. It was not an unpleasant hand to hold, despite its boney nature. Elegant in its way, as he moved with such practiced grace, doing his bidding in such an exacting manner.

Able to create beauty as well as pain.

Yet with her, despite his haste, his foolishness, his rashness, he had always been so very gentle. So careful.

And how could she not appreciate being treasured by such a man?

"I think we still have some things to talk about though," she murmured softly, not wanting to disturb the calm she had managed to create for them. But there were things unsaid, there were memories that needed to be shared, and she could not simply leave him here in his darkened room, plagued by thoughts and fears.

Not again.

For the first time she allowed her attention to drift from Erik and flit about his room—at least, the details she could make out with such dim lighting for illumination.

It was... dark. Not simply because of the lack of light, but because the walls appeared to be painted an oppressive ebony, the floor an unrelenting hue of grey. There was no other furniture in the room except for...

She swallowed and released his hand, taking a step forward to inspect what could not possibly, simply _could_ _not_ be...

A coffin.

She choked.

She gasped.

She stumbled forward and laid her hand against the casket. Empty, but perfectly real as she skimmed her fingertips across the polished wood.

And then Erik was pulling her into his arms and leading her away, and she numbly allowed it, still not quite believing what had been in the center of his room.

Did he... did he sleep there?

Surely there was another room off of that one that was more comfortable. Where a proper bed and a nightstand with a proper reading lamp rested so he could wile away his Sunday mornings in relaxation if he so chose.

Except...

This was Erik.

With his haunted past, with his lack of smiles, why would he not choose to embrace the morbidity that someone had sought to convince him formed his true self?

She took in a rasping breath and forced down her horror and Erik led her to the sofa, Boo blinking at them as they neared, but making no move to vacate the leather reading chair.

"Christine?" Erik asked tentatively.

She shook her head. This would not be like last time. There was no panic clutching at her throat and keeping her lungs from drawing in air. There was only the terrible realization of the extent in which Erik suffered. And how could her own feeble love ever hope to ease the demons that so plagued him?

Erik sat down beside her, his hand wrapping about hers, before he gave it a tender squeeze. She was grateful for it, for his reassurance that even in the midst of his own despair, he saw her upset and sought so soothe.

Only to chuckle despite herself when he ever so stealthily reached two fingers toward her pulse point, checking to see that her vitals were within a normal range.

"I'm fine," she finally managed, bemused that now it was he who felt the need to comfort himself with the steady nature of her heartbeat.

"Shall I get you something? Tea perhaps? You do so like tea."

His eyes were wide, and she could see that he would very much like to be of use to her, but she shook her head yet again. This was not going to be about her. She needed to talk with him, of so many things, but first she needed to collect herself.

"No, thank you. But... I think I'm going to make us some hot chocolate and then we can... talk."

Erik stared at her in surprise. "Hot... chocolate," he murmured, the name seemingly foreign on his lips.

Her heart gave a little ache to think of it.

"Yes. Nothing soothes rumpled spirits better and I think we could both use some. I'll be right back."

"If you but tell me the recipe, I should be happy to retrieve it for you," Erik insisted, moving to follow her.

Christine swallowed and gave him a wan smile. "Let me do this for you, Erik, please. Just this simple thing."

For a moment he looked as if he was prepared to argue, but eventually he gave a little sigh and nodded his head. "If you wish it, Christine," he relented, easing back onto the sofa.

And as she left the room he felt him watching her, but when she peeked behind, instead his gaze was settled on Boo lounging in their favorite chair, his eyes narrowed.

She couldn't help but smile at that.

The kitchen, while well stocked, did not seem to have any cocoa mix anywhere, no matter how many cupboards she rifled through. But there was a bag of chocolate chips, and with a shrug she added a generous portion to the already heating milk. She would have liked to have added generous dollops of whipped cream, the only proper way in her mind to enjoy the beverage, but that always left her with a white nose and sugary face, and she highly doubted Erik would approve of such a thing, never mind the mess it would make to pull out a mixer.

To her amusement however, she found a bag of marshmallows, fresh and fluffy as they waited patiently to be used. What on earth had possessed him to buy them?

The very act of making something—something sweet and comforting and delicious as she dipped a spoon into the dark liquid to taste it—was soothing to her. It was tangible and real and not fraught with painful emotions and even more difficult memories, and too soon it was ready.

She carefully poured two mugfuls from the saucepan, proud of herself that she didn't spill any on the counters, before adding a healthy layer of marshmallows to seal in the heat and flavor.

A part of her wanted to stay here where it was safe, but that was cowardly, and Christine could not afford to be so. Not now. Not when Erik still suffered so.

"Here we go," she announced, her voice overly bright.

Erik was still engaged in some sort of stare off with Boo, gold eyes meeting like as they determined who was in fact the true owner of the chair. And if a cat could look triumphant, he most certainly did so when Erik gave way first as he rose to assist her, taking the mugs from her and easing them down on coasters upon the coffee table.

"I don't know if you'll like it," she said bemusedly, "but I'd very much like if you at least tried."

It was still rather incredible to her that he had never done so before. Or perhaps his unfamiliarity had been born more from disbelief that adults would willingly consume such a saccharine treat of their own volition.

He reached for one of the mugs and glanced down at its contents dubiously, and for a moment she thought he would refuse it outright. But eventually he brought it to his lips, sipping delicately, and from the way his eyes widened, receiving a mouthful of marshmallow.

"Whipped cream is better," she apologized quickly. "But some might say that marshmallows are more traditional."

He nodded, and seemed more content to hold his mug rather than try more of it. And that was fine with her as she took her own sip. It was more a distraction than anything, something that might ease some of the awkwardness to come.

"You wished to...talk," Erik affirmed hesitantly.

Christine glanced at him. "And you don't?"

He grimaced at that, and she couldn't really blame him. He seemed so ashamed of his past, and if she felt similarly, she doubted she would have relished the prospect of speaking of it openly.

"I am certain what you wish to discuss is not one of my favorite of subjects."

Christine sighed. "I want to talk about a lot of things, but I don't really know where to begin."

Instead of offering a suggestion, Erik merely brought the mug closer, his lips not touching the rim but simply breathing in the steam.

Evidently he expected her to guide them through the murky waters of communication.

Christine took her own sip, the sweetness nearly cloying on her tongue, and she told herself firmly that when she'd finished she would promptly brush her teeth thoroughly, cavities the last thing she needed to worry about at the moment.

"Who said those awful things to you? About... about being a corpse?"

He had never fully answered her. _Her_ had been bandied about, but there were a great many women in the world.

Erik allowed his long naked pointer finger to drift into the melting marshmallow, idly twirling it about as he noted the way the sticky white substance clung to his flesh.

"That would be the woman who birthed me," he finally stated, his tone carefully flat.

He was tense beside her, his posture of forced relaxation, but Christine could easily see through his façade.

"What was she like?" she asked cautiously, ready to divert the subject if it prompted an outburst from Erik.

He gave her a withering look. "I thought I made her temperament quite clear already."

Christine took another sip. "You said that she hid you, and hurt you. If she didn't want a child, why didn't she give you up for adoption?"

Erik snorted. "Families want sweet, perfect children. Not those born to drug addicted prostitutes whose babies have their own share of tolerances."

Christine blanched. "You..."

Erik shrugged. "Evidently she had much cause to resent me from the moment I was born. Not only was I hideous, she came to realize that apparently I cried a great deal for some of her _stash._"

"She… she didn't give you any, did she?"

Erik chuckled humorlessly. "Share? I think not."

Christine was quiet for a while, not sure how to respond. She had seen those kinds of women walking home from work, their eyes dead even as they pranced and sauntered for men driving by. She couldn't imagine what they went home to. Did they have little children they were trying to feed? Or did they choose such a profession because with their drug habits, other more reputable places wouldn't have them?

"Frightened you away already, have I?"

Christine startled, lost in her own thoughts. "No," she assured. "Just... I'm trying to picture it."

Erik shook his head. "Best not to. There was nothing pretty about any of it, and you should only have to dwell upon good things. Nice things."

Christine huffed. "No, I shouldn't. Not when someone I love is hurting because of not so nice things."

Erik's eyes widened, but he did not argue with her again about her love, for which she was very grateful.

"Do you... do you want to tell me about the other thing you said?" She couldn't even form the words to be more specific, and that did not bode well for her ability to get through the conversation without bursting into tears.

Erik groaned. "Why do you wish to know more of it? You are distressed enough."

Christine placed her hot chocolate down on the table, mindful of the coaster as she did so, and very carefully nestled her body against his. She drew her knees up and tucked them under her, her head resting against his shoulder, his body tense and rigid beside her, but not making any move to push her away.

"You shouldn't have to carry all this alone, Erik. Not when it still makes you so miserable. I want to know you, to understand you, and I think... I think all of this is important." Erik's lips thinned and she reached out her hand, rubbing his arm softly. "But you don't have to if you don't want to."

Erik sighed deeply and Christine smiled when he shifted ever so slightly so he could rest his head against her hair, perfectly nestled as she was beside him. "The Daroga would ask me questions. Whenever I'd done something particularly terrible he'd shake his head and ask how I got this way. I never wished to answer though. It was none of his business."

Christine fiddled with Erik's sleeve. "And now?"

He hummed, and she could have sworn that he pressed a kiss into her hair. "I want you to know me," he confessed. "I want you to know of me and still… still love me at the end of it."

She told herself firmly that her eyes didn't need to water, that the lump in her throat could settle without releasing any of the ridiculous sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. So instead she merely nuzzled closer, relishing the contact she had not realized she had missed so very much. "Tell me about yourself, Erik. Whatever you want to share."

And to her great relief, he did so.

His tone was not overly pleasant, more morose than anything, and she could tell that he skimmed many details for her own delicate sensibilities. "We lived in a dingy apartment. You never could imagine such filth as the grime that clung to the walls and the horrific carpets. The smell alone..." He shuddered beside her, and despite his warning that to do so would prove unpleasant, she could not help but try to picture the world he had been born into. Erik was fastidious in everything he did, from his personal grooming to the house he so carefully maintained. Was that simply an essential part of his nature, or was he desperate to create an environment so different from what he was raised in?

"That... woman..." Christine did not correct his choice of word, knowing that he referred to his mother. "As I stated, her _profession_ was one of whoring," the word was harsh and made her flinch, but still she did not correct him.

"Until one day she brought a man home."

Christine stilled further, her heart beating quickly.

"I must have been about eight years of age at the time, although I do not actually have any earthly idea as to my actual date of birth. He... frightened me."

Christine swallowed, but said nothing, allowing Erik to collect his thoughts and divulge his history at his own pace.

"She would lock me in the closet most days as he complained about me, and I became very grateful for the dark. It was safe there where I was alone, where no one could see, no one could hurt." He sighed and gestured at the room about him. "I still find the solitude a blessing."

"And a curse," she amended, not meaning to have spoken it aloud.

She felt him nod. "Yes, I suppose in its way. But loneliness hurts in far different ways."

That at least she knew well, although to compare their two situations seemed a grave disservice to Erik's pain.

"What happened then?" she prompted softly.

Erik was quiet for a while longer, and she felt a tremor run through him at the memory. "He liked to ply her with drugs and various alcohols. That seemed to be their primary motivation for their relationships, aside from the sex of course."

Christine flinched, not at all wanting to think about young, impressionable Erik being exposed to such tawdry episodes while locked away in the dark.

"One day however, she passed out. Not an uncommon event, mind you, and I had hoped he would simply depart as he typically did. But instead..."

He shuddered and she wrapped her arm more tightly about his arm. "You're all right now, Erik. You're here with me, and I would never think of hurting you."

She felt a little silly for reminding him of that—she wasn't even sure it was possible for her to actually hurt him physically, but she hoped he knew how much she meant it all the same.

"The details matter little," he finally stated. "You need not be plagued by the particulars."

"But he... hurt you," she confirmed, burying her face in his sleeve.

"Yes," he whispered, although there was a hardness to his voice that should have frightened her. "And I can assure you, I hurt him back."

Christine pulled back slightly, her hands still wrapped about his arm but now she could see him properly. "What do you mean?" she asked, dread filling her belly.

His eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment she knew fear—she knew that while he was sweet and kind and good, he also possessed an anger that she could not possibly begin to fully understand.

She nibbled at her lip, soothing herself with reminders that he would never hurt her. That while he might understandably yell and shout as he remembered the injustices of his past, that did not mean he would ever be cruel to her in turn.

"I killed him, Christine," he answered plainly, no hint of remorse crossing his features. "When it was over, I took one of his precious bottles and I hit him. Again and again until he moved no more. Until he could hurt no more."

Christine blanched, trying to keep from imagining the scene.

Of a young Erik, terrified and so recently abused, broken both in mind and body.

Of his tormenter, newly sated, finally releasing him.

And of a desperate act that had resulted in murder.

"I fled after that," he continued, his voice still slightly dead. "Only later did I learn that upon _her_ awakening did she call the police, only to then be convicted of his murder. I did not feel the need to enlighten the authorities as to the true cause of his death."

She didn't know what to say, hadn't the words to even begin sharing with him the thoughts that whirled through her mind, but he looked at her expectantly, and with a resignation that she hated.

"I told you that you could not love me," he reminded her, fully expectant that she would agree with him now. "I'm a murderer and allowed someone else to take the punishment for my crimes. If you frowned upon my title of kidnapper, you surely will be incapable of caring for one such as me."

"Oh, you foolish man," she choked out, tears halting what few words she could find amidst the jumble of her thoughts. She was confused, was saddened and heartbroken at what he has shared with her, and was so terribly angry at those that had used him so monstrously.

And they dared call _him_ monster.

Not caring for propriety or modesty or any of the like, Christine moved so she sat across his lap, pulling him as close as she possibly could as she embraced him. There was more to talk about, more she needed to know and to understand, but in this moment... she simply wanted him to feel how very much she cared.

"You sweet, ridiculous man. How could I do anything but love you?"

And then before she could think better of it, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his forehead.

* * *

Sooo... Christine is really getting the hang of this "I love you" business! And I think Erik needs it after that childhood of his... Were you surprised at what happened? The line for giving Erik hugs starts here...


	32. Chapter 32

I've been feeling rather poorly today (throes of allergy season and my medication seems to have decided to stop working... joy), but me Beta is wonderful and heard my cry for aid and got me through word count today! So as always big thank you to _Honey Jenkins_.

And now, I think some aftermath is in order... and I think I've been promising a date for a while now...

Onward!

* * *

XXXII

She hadn't meant to make him cry.

And yet it seemed that the simple brush of her lips against his skin—his so delicate skin—caused some hidden part of him to break, and tears fell freely as he clutched her to him.

"Oh, Christine!" he muttered over and over as he wept, and she sincerely hoped that she had not triggered some horrible memory for him. Not when they had discussed such painful things already. She couldn't bear to think she had so unthinkingly added to his hurts.

"Erik," she tried, brushing her fingers through the silky strands of his hair as she sought to understand. "Did I... did I do something wrong?"

He gave a choked sound and pulled back from her ever so slightly, just enough so he could see her properly. He was a sight, his eyes so red and swollen, tears streaming down his cheeks as he looked at her with such awe, such reverence.

It nearly made her breathless.

"You love me," he whispered disbelievingly. "You would not kiss me if you did not love me and... no one has ever done either. And... and you did not die."

How her heart ached for him.

She swallowed back her own tears, but her words were strained as her throat felt tight and thick from the sobs that threatened to undo her. "Die? Why would I die?"

Erik fiddled with an errant thread instead of looking at her. "I begged a kiss once. Just to know what it was like. And _she_," and Christine needed no explanation as to whom he referred, "said that if anyone did manage to ever kiss me, they would drop down dead from the horror of it."

She wanted to find this woman. She wanted to hit and scream and demand how anyone, anyone could look at a poor unhappy Erik and treat him with such disdain, wounding and tainting his lovely soul with such poison.

Her tears fell freely, but she managed to speak despite them, trying to imbue all the sincerity, all the love she could. "Well, you have someone to love you now. And to kiss you, if you'd like. That was a horrible, horrible thing for her to say because it isn't true. It never was true. You're a good man, Erik, despite it all, and I wish you could believe that."

Erik made no reply, but then, she didn't truly expect one.

"And I... I'm glad you know I'm not the kind of girl that goes around kissing men that I don't love."

Erik nodded solemnly at that and tucked his head back into the crook of her neck, content to simply hold her, to bury away his visage so she could not see and that, in that moment, did not matter in the least.

"Does this mean that you... that you forgive your Erik. For what he did to you? And for not being sorry?"

Christine wasn't sure whether she was closer to laughing or to weeping, so she simply gave a sad sort of smile and continued to stroke his hair, thin though it was, as she offered him what solace she could. "It is terribly hard to remain upset with you, you know. Not when you're so sweet and thoughtful all the time."

Erik made a funny humming sound in the back of his throat. "I am not sorry for that either."

He sounded almost like a boy... a boy he had once been, tortured and abused instead of loved, regardless of the circumstances. But she didn't mind, not now. Not now when that childish part of him could at the very least be soothed with a hug and a kiss to the forehead.

She wasn't so foolish as to think that the rest of him—the man who did terrible things, and thought that they were justified because of past hurts—could be pacified so easily.

And yet still, somehow in the midst of all the craziness, all the confusion he had wrought upon her…

Her anger had faded.

Her understanding had grown.

And forgiveness had been nurtured.

"Yes," she murmured softly. "It means I've forgiven you."

And her Erik held her all the more, whispering words she could not hear, yet she felt in her heart were declarations of thankfulness.

And maybe even of love.

Christine was fairly certain it was too early for sleeping, but she suddenly felt weary from the heavy nature of their discussion, and she wanted nothing more than to retire. To sleep until her mind could make sense of it all, could manage to remind her that justice was in the world, even when it seemed so very lost.

But that would leave Erik alone, would leave him with his thoughts and, if he was equally tired, with that coffin.

Christine swallowed again, bracing herself for his response. "Erik," she began slowly. "Why do you have a coffin in your room?"

Erik chuckled, that horrible sound that came without humor, and she knew without seeing them that his eyes would turn to flat, cold embers, his mind lost in the abyss of long ago. "We must grow used to everything, Christine, including Death. It comes for us all and perhaps I would like to not fear it so very much."

Would she never stop crying?

Lots of people feared death. Perhaps not the act of dying itself, but the unknown, the uncertainty that accompanied the experience.

But that did not mean they commissioned caskets and scattered them throughout their homes, forcing themselves into the confines prematurely so they could see what it felt like.

To actually _be_ a corpse, if only for a while.

And she couldn't bear the thought of him returning there again.

"Would you… would you stay with me tonight?" she asked quietly. "I… don't want to be left alone."

_I don't want to leave _you _alone._

Erik grew very still, and she hastened to clarify.

"Not to… not to do anything. Just… just to be with me. And you can stay on top of the covers if you like, or sit in a chair," she winced at that, knowing that if she asked it, he undoubtedly would remain so for the entire night, uncomfortable and possibly cold even though she had asked that his underground home be kept warmer for her sake. "But just… so that you're there."

"You wish for Erik… for _me _to be there while you sleep?" Erik asked haltingly. "You would invite me into your bed?"

Christine blushed thoroughly at that, as she had only heard of such things in relation to… well… _relations. _And no matter that she loved him, no matter that she grieved with him, she was most certainly not prepared to do anything of the sort. Not yet anyway. Probably not for a while.

But the idea itself did not repulse her. She had no doubt that Erik would be a gentle sort, especially since he knew what it was for it to be a…

She pushed the thought away before she started to cry once more.

"Only if you want," she assured him. "But… maybe you need me too. If only a little. And I'd like to keep you company as well, if you'd let me."

Erik scoffed at that and finally he was looking at her, his shock and hopefulness mingling and making her very glad for her offer. "I need you very much," he murmured, allowing one hand to reach up and stroke her cheek softly. "I do not think you realize how much."

She was beginning to. And while the prospect had once been a daunting one, still was if she thought about it for too long, she didn't mind the idea any longer.

Not when it meant being with him.

Christine clamored off his lap, suddenly remembering their position and her embarrassment at being so forward finally settling over her.

Erik rose as well, and she forced down her blushes and stuttered apologies, instead taking his hand as she made to lead them to the bedroom.

Nerves settled in her stomach at the thought.

She'd been clear. This was not the beginning of a romantic tryst. She only wanted to offer comfort and receive it in return, and sometimes that could only be given by company.

Christine turned to Erik to remind him of that again, just so things were perfectly clear between them, but his attention was focused on a dozing Boo. "I will be accompanying your mistress now. Your presence will not be required. But do be careful of the leather."

He only gave a little snore in response.

And Christine wondered if it was actually possible to fall further in love simply because of a cat and a man's covetousness.

"He'll do as he pleases, you know," she reminded Erik gently. "And he gets lonely too. Surely you wouldn't deny him."

Erik sniffed and followed obediently as she led him through to her room, although he looked awkward and unsure as she went to her favored side of the bed and climbed beneath the covers.

"Perhaps not," he relented, his attention never leaving the vacant side of her bed. "Although I did not allow him into my coffin, no matter how he cried to investigate."

Christine shivered at that and resolved that in the morning, when she was rested and no longer so wholly overwhelmed, she would address that particular matter further.

She tapped the bed at her side in invitation, and she could easily see Erik's conflict. "It's just to sleep, Erik. That's all. I'm not... I'm not ready for more. Not yet. I hope... I hope that's okay."

It would certainly have to be, but she knew, even before he had revealed the horrors of his childhood, Erik was not the type to press her, to demand liberties that were not his to take.

He took a deep breath and nodded, and when he settled beside her, still fully dressed in his suit and shiny patent leather shoes as he crossed his ankles neatly, she suddenly realized she should have asked if he'd prefer to change first.

But he waved away her concern, his body tense. "I would prefer to remain as I am," he replied stiffly."Unless... unless it is displeasing to you."

Christine shrugged and tapped at the lamp on the side table until the light dimmed. "I want you to be comfortable," she reminded him. She nestled down further in the covers, the silence suddenly heavy and almost smothering.

And how she hated it.

She wanted comfort, not to add more complication to her already muzzy thoughts, and she did the only thing she could think of to at least alleviate some of the strain.

Christine scooted a little closer, careful and prepared for Erik to flee from her completely, until she rested her head against his arm, her hand nestled in the crook of his elbow, a soothing place from its familiarity. His suit was soft against her cheek, and she tried not to notice Erik's hitched breath at her action.

"Thank you for staying with me," she whispered into the dark, some part of her settling as they were once more touching, once more together. "I hope it is not too difficult for you."

He was silent for a long while, and she was very nearly asleep before he answered her.

Yet suddenly a trembling hand was smoothing a lock of her hair back behind her ear, and she wondered if it was real or simply a dream.

"Your Erik would walk through fire in order to please you. Yet instead you ask him to guard you while you sleep." His voice was tight and rather choked, and even in her muddled state, she recognized that he was close to tears once more. "You are far more than I could ever deserve."

"S'not true," she mumbled, trying to convince her partially asleep mind to allow her to answer him properly.

But he merely hushed her and continued to pet her hair, humming softly until she could fight the sleep no more.

-X-

When next she awoke, she was alone.

She briefly wondered if she had imagined the entire exchange, but the bed beside her was slightly rumpled, more than was usual when there was only her within it.

"Erik?" she called tentatively, suddenly worried that she would find him in a woeful state—that he abandoned her during the night and returned to the terrors of his thoughts and memories, with no one there to help him.

She received no reply and her worry heightened.

He was not in the living room where he so often sat waiting for her to awaken, and with growing dread she hurried to his bedroom door.

Only to hear sounds emanating from the kitchen.

The sight there surprised her, but perhaps it really shouldn't have.

Boo was on his little platform, happily lapping at his breakfast as Erik bustled about the room, baking and frying in turn—the very picture of domesticity.

And not a hint of upset on his features, even as he glanced down at Boo and tsked at him. "Do try to keep your chicken in the bowl, little fellow. I shall have enough mess to clean as it is."

She didn't know why but her eyes started to sting as she witnessed his gentleness, the tender care he showed to their little kitten—no less than he had ever shown to her.

And then she remembered the state she was in, her hair likely a mess from sleep and her teeth not even brushed.

And she fled back to her room and hastened to rectify her appearance, she realized with a rueful smile that it was the first time she _cared_ what he thought of her looks. She wanted to be pretty for him, for him to appreciate the effort she had put forth.

Just as other couples did.

Except they weren't a couple. Not really. They hadn't even had a proper date, but already he had spent the night in her bed. And, she supposed with a grimace, they were living together—something she was not wholly comfortable with.

It sent an uneasy feeling in her belly to think of it, and she wondered what her papa would say. He had been so clear about the importance of marriage, of her choosing wisely the man she would call husband, and never once did he suggest that things could happen so completely out of order.

Her hair tamed, her teeth brushed, and the facilities used, Christine emerged once more from her bedroom, feeling much more prepared to greet Erik properly.

"Will you be staying this time?" Erik asked when next she entered the kitchen, his gaze never leaving the oven as he carefully watched the muffins within for signs of turning a golden brown.

Christine blushed, hoping that he truly hadn't noticed her, but she supposed there was nothing for it now. "Yes," she replied cheerfully, hopping on an unused bit of counter and deciding to simply watch him as he worked.

Erik gave her a dubious look but at her cheeky smile said nothing about her current position.

That was for the best.

"What's all this?" she asked, gesturing to the signs of breakfast to come.

Erik shifted slightly, and she realized he was slightly uncomfortable at her question. "I had... hoped that last night could have been the beginning of..." he took a deep breath seemingly to settle his nerves. "You have seemed rather... agreeable to my person, and it was my intention that perhaps dinner last night could have been the beginning of our... of our courtship. But instead I had to open my mouth and ruin what could have been a perfectly pleasant evening, so I wondered if you might consent to have breakfast... with me."

She blinked at him. She'd had breakfast with him before... he'd yet to let a morning go by without her eating something promptly upon her wakening. But as he looked at her so bashfully, so unsure that what he asked was too much to actually hope for, she could not help but recognize that he was asking for more.

He wanted a date.

With her.

"You did say that you had forgiven me," he reminded her softly.

She cleared her throat, cursing that yet again she felt the urge to cry for his unhappy plight, but instead she reached out and popped a freshly sliced strawberry in her mouth from a nearby bowl and gave him a smile. "I should be happy to have a breakfast date with you. Assuming you will actually eat _with_ me."

Erik appeared torn between grimacing at the prospect and beaming at her acquiescence.

And not for the first time, she thought him one of the sweetest men she had ever known.

"I realize it is not as traditional as dinner," he apologized, returning his attention to the muffins.

Christine took another strawberry. "Erik, this is perfect. I've seen plenty of first dates at the restaurant, all formal and stuffy as they try to impress each other, completely self-conscious about how they chew and how they hold their forks. I just... want to know you. That's all. And for you to know me. And I think we can manage to do that over muffins just as well as a nice steak. Maybe even better."

She meant it too. While at times she would look at the new couples with a pang of longing and loneliness, typically she found the entire exchange stilted and forced. She even felt awkward as their server, and she couldn't imagine how much worse it would be to actually be forced to be a part of the dinner itself.

Their breakfast apparently the color he desired, Erik retrieved them from their heated prison, removing them from the pan and settling them on a plate. He piled it high and she knew it wasn't possible for her to eat so many, and she hoped that meant he was actually going to eat with her. It had not escaped her notice that he had not actually stated that he would.

His mask had returned today, but she made no mention of it. Somehow she felt that would be worse, to continue to bring up a subject that obviously pained him, especially after the night they had shared. He had been vulnerable, some of his darkest secrets laid bare, and she could offer him some small comfort, no matter how it saddened her that he should think such a thing necessary.

"If you would not mind bringing the strawberries, my dear, we can adjourn to the dining room."

Her cheeks pinked at his endearment and she almost fumbled with the bowl of fruit, giving him a sheepish smile at his look of concern. "I'm fine," she promised, wishing that it was true.

Why did he affect her so?

Erik did not appear wholly convinced, but he nodded anyway and carried the plate of muffins behind her as they made their way to the long dining table.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, not expecting to find even more food laid across the table.

He apologized again as he took away their coverings, "To keep them warm," he explained, eggs and bacon and even fried red potatoes being revealed. "If you had slept a bit longer I could have had it all laid out properly." His tone was not one of chastisement, but embarrassment, and she gave an incredulous chuckle that a bit of foil on his fine table should be a source of discomfort.

"Erik, it's perfect. Truly."

And because she could stand it no longer, she placed her bowl of strawberries down next to the plate she hoped to make hers, walking to him purposefully and going on tiptoe to place a kiss on his covered cheek.

For he was so very sweet and so very kind, and he made her heart flutter in all the most pleasant ways.

He raised a hand to touch where she had kissed when she had once more pulled away and returned to her place, taking bits of everything and lathering a generous amount of butter on her blueberry muffin.

"Aren't you going to sit?" she finally asked him, a teasing lilt to her voice.

Erik nodded solemnly and did so, and to her relief she saw him taking small portions of things as well.

But instead of eating, he merely picked at his food with a fork, not taking a bite of anything.

She chewed a bit of bacon, considering, before she forced herself to set aside her own fork and napkin. "I'm going to get a sweater," she announced, "so if you want to perhaps... remove your mask while I'm gone, I wouldn't mind."

And before he could reply, she did just that.

She truly wasn't cold, Erik keeping his home much more of a pleasant temperature due to her request, but she hoped that maybe with a bit of privacy he wouldn't feel so badly about revealing himself to her. And to her great relief when she returned to the dining room, this time swathed in cashmere that felt far too grand for the t-shirt and soft pants she had donned the day before, Erik's face was indeed uncovered. He kept his eyes lowered to his food, this time taking small nibbles every so often.

Christine returned to her chair and searched for a safe enough topic. "You didn't learn to cook just for me, did you?"

Erik shook his head slowly, his shoulders relaxing somewhat, perhaps because she hadn't commented on his eating habits or his appearance. "No, I learned when I was young and... on my own. It was a grand diversion for a time, exploring new tastes and flavors, especially when I began to travel, but..." he sighed and gave a little shrug. "The novelty passes over time, especially when there is only one to cook for. It ceased to be worth the effort."

She thought of him, alone and miserable here before she came, so lost in his own despair that he had simply stopped living. Stopped creating, stopped thriving, stopped... everything.

"But it's worth it now?" she asked cautiously, hoping that he was not upset at having to do so again.

"Oh yes," he breathed, his expression of pure earnestness. "For it places such a lovely smile on your lips when it is good. I would cook for you the rest of my days if it meant that you would share such things with me."

And as Christine took a bite of her very excellent muffin, she thought that might not be such a terrible exchange.

* * *

Sooo... The beginnings of a date! And a breakfast one at that. Not all dinner and candlelight, but whoever suggested that a muffin couldn't be romantic food? And our sneaky Erik even made it into Christine's bed last night! And a glimpse at his own room for the first time... is it what you thought it would be? Wonder if Christine will have more to say about that coffin...

Please review!


	33. Chapter 33

In case anyone who has read my stories before was wondering, the reason Civic Duty is only updated once a week is because I've been writing an original novel alongside it... and I am finally coming to the end! But that does mean that it's taking up more of my attention, and alas, until it is finish, this story is officially going on hold in terms of being... worked on.

The good news is, I'm creeping up on the epilogue so that really shouldn't have much ramifications for all of you as I _should _be able to finish up my novel and get a new chapter for this story written next week. Should. Probably. Fingers crossed. So all that to say, I'm going to try my hardest to update on schedule, but just... have patience, please! I've been writing these stories since August and I'm a wee bit exhausted... yet the final push is on to at least be free of one of them! I mean... have on finished. Yes, that's what I meant...

So for now, onward!

* * *

XXXIII

There were so many things that she wanted to ask him, but as she continued to nibble on the bounty before her, she found that she was nervous about doing so. It was clear that things in his life had been far from pleasant, that they had broached some of his most intimate and painful experiences before even going on their first date, and she didn't know how to return to the relative ease and superficiality that came with simply getting to know someone.

But she supposed she needed to be the one to try, yet how was she to know which innocuous questions could lead to more sinister or haunting memories?

She swallowed and continued to ponder, only for Erik to be the one to break the silence.

"Did you always love to sing?"

Grateful for his attempt at conversation, she smiled at him. "Yes," she replied, the familiar fondness creeping over her as she thought of what she and her father had shared. "My papa taught me. He was a great musician, you know, always had such big dreams. But I didn't care about those things, I just wanted him to be proud of me. I can't remember ever being happier than when I was singing while he played."

Erik was quiet for a moment, breaking apart a muffin top as he stared down at the decimated remains. "And you… you still would not consider doing so with me?"

Christine hesitated. She had forgiven him, of that she was certain, and already she was sharing one of her favorite morning rituals with him…

Would continuing to deny him her voice be because of true discomfort, or because some small part of her still wanted to punish him for having frightened and absconded with her?

Christine grew increasingly uncomfortable that it should be the latter. She loved him, she knew that she did, and it was not like her to want to hold a grudge.

"I… I hadn't really thought about it," she confessed. "We've had so much going on."

Erik sighed and nodded his head, his disappointment obvious.

And she knew from the set of his lips, the slump of his shoulders, he would not be asking her again. He had accepted her refusal, that she had no interest in sharing her musicality with him, no matter how important it was to him, and he resignedly considered the subject closed.

She nibbled at her lip, her heart pounding as she considered, finally deciding that she would rather he be happy, even if it meant being open in such a personal way.

"But maybe… maybe now I'd be… willing to try. With you."

Erik stood quickly, his eyes alight with excitement. "We shall begin at once," he declared firmly.

Christine chuckled and shook her head. "Not _now._ We are on a date, and I believe it's customary for you to allow your companion to eat her fill before whisking her away on the next adventure."

Erik sat immediately, looking properly chastened. "My apologies," he muttered into his plate, although she could not help but notice the surreptitious glances he gave her own food, evidently trying to judge how long she would make him wait.

Christine took another bite of strawberry and chewed slowly, having no intention of rushing, despite Erik's enthusiasm. Now was their time to know one another, and she was not going to squander it by letting them scurry off to his music room.

"Did you ever go to school? Is that how you know so very much?"

Erik snorted and poured himself a cup of something dark from the pot resting near his plate. She had a personal pot of tea, but from the smell wafting from his side of the table, she supposed he was drinking coffee.

Her nose wrinkled as she imagined the bitter brew, taking a sip of her own sweetened tea instead.

"Education was of little importance during my early years, and evidently when you lack the foundation, traditional schools do not know what to do with you."

"Then how did you…." She gave her fork a wave, gesturing to the architectural marvel that was his home.

Erik smirked at her. "While others did not know how to educate me, that did not also mean I did not take it upon myself to learn."

Christine gaped at him. "You learned how to do all of this by yourself?"

Erik shrugged modestly, even as his eyes glittered at her wonder. "I am rather intelligent," he explained simply.

She had known that. Really she had. But to hear he had begun from nothing—completely alone and without anyone to guide his instruction… was it any wonder that parts of his moral compass had become skewed along the way?

Christine glanced about the dining room, not for the first time wondering how his home had come to be. "Did you actually build all of this yourself?" She couldn't imagine how long that would have taken, and she hated the thought of him toiling alone.

"Alas not," Erik replied almost woefully. "When renovations were underway downstairs, I hired my own crew for the implementation of this particular structure."

Christine's brow furrowed. "But… how did you keep them from talking about the project? I mean, surely it was a peculiar order."

Erik smirk turned into a grin. "You would be surprised what proper financial motivation can provide in terms of discretion."

Christine gave him a dubious look and he picked imaginary lint from his sleeve. "They might also have been under the impression that it was a highly classified government project that would result in some… unpleasantness if word ever leaked of its creation. And they might have signed some heavily worded contracts to further ensure their silence."

"Erik!" Christine cried reproachfully. "That's terrible!"

"No," Erik corrected patiently. "That is effective."

Christine rolled her eyes. "And what would you have done if one of them had talked? Had them arrested? Threatened them more?"

_Killed them?_

She did not say it. She bit back the words even as they tried to escape her, but as Erik's eyes narrowed, she could have sworn that he heard them anyway.

"Is there something you would like to ask me, Christine?"

Christine nibbled her lip, uncertain, but Erik continued before she could fully order her thoughts.

"You are by far the most compassionate creature of my acquaintance, and yet you suddenly question how my workers fare. But if you are too afraid to ask it, I can assure you, I would not have bothered to pay them so handsomely if I intended merely to murder them when the project was completed."

Christine kicked herself for being so accusatory. She knew better than that, especially when she wanted a pleasant breakfast. A proper date.

But a question from the second trial still niggled at her mind, and she supposed she had ventured too far into the matter to simply change the subject.

"What happened with Mr. Buquet?" she asked quietly, fiddling with her napkin.

Erik sighed deeply. "Are you asking me if I attempted to kill him?"

Christine hesitated. Did she really want to know?

But eventually she managed a reply. "I want to know your side of things. Not so I can be angry, but just... everyone else got a chance to speak except you." Although really, she supposed there was nothing keeping him from revealing a great deal more when the second trial was entirely of his own creation, but still, he had not taken advantage of his audience by revealing all of what he had thought and done.

Erik sank back against his chair, looking at her thoughtfully. "What sort of a man do you think he is?"

Christine bit her lip, considering how honest to be. Throughout the entirety of the trial, she was becoming far more aware of how biased she had been. While no less right regarding Erik's innocence, her compassion and that inexplicable pull she had felt toward him had colored her view of witnesses and their testimony, perhaps to the detriment of her judgment. And yet with Mr. Buquet...

"He did not seem very nice."

Erik barked out an incredulous laugh, startling her with its vehemence. "You have a gift for understatement, my dear. No, Joseph Buquet is not a _very nice_ sort of man. He is negligent in his work, he is often intoxicated on one substance or another, and he is a general nuisance to my person."

Christine took a sip of tea, not sure how to respond. "But... is that really reason enough to hurt him?"

"Ah, have you changed your mind so quickly? Now I merely wished to hurt him instead of end his miserable existence?"

Christine took a deep breath before looking at him pleadingly. "Please don't mock me, Erik. I'm just trying to understand."

Something in her tone made him soften and he lost some of his sarcastic bluster, instead finally speaking in the much gentler voice she was used to. "I do not ask you to be my judge, Christine. I am well aware of my sins without you poking at them."

Her eyes widened. "I... I didn't mean to..."

He smiled at her sadly. "No, you mean to _understand_. But how can you? When your world, while painful though it undoubtedly has been, has still allowed you to think that there is the potential for good within even the sorriest excuse of humanity." Erik huffed, a resigned and miserable sort of sound. "And eventually, when you pry out such secrets from me, you will begin to realize that not all of us are worth loving, worth your compassion."

Christine could stand it no longer. She stood and walked closer to him purposefully, not completely certain of what she intended to do but hating the way he had simply accepted this terrible untruth as an inevitable.

"You think there are conditions on my love?"

There was no chair near him, and though she could have knelt upon the floor, in this moment she rather liked that she was able to tower above him for a change—although even seated he was not so very much shorter than her.

Erik gave a little shrug. "Why should there not be? It is very generous of you to overlook certain failings, to forgive what I... what I have done to you... but I have no illusions that at some point you shall hear something of my past, some blight upon my soul that will make it so that I am no longer worthy of even your smallest affection."

How she hated his doubts!

And was it any wonder that he was so reticent to share with her, if he feared that at any moment a story or a mention of his past would suddenly cause her to withdraw the love he was so careful to accept in the first place?

"Erik," she replied finally, words seeming so inadequate. But they were all she had, and she was all _he_ had to face a lifetime of demons.

And that made her feel all the more sorry for him.

"Papa always told me that when I loved someone... _if_ I had to love anyone other than him," she smiled at the memory, of her younger self shaking her head adamantly that such a thing would never be necessary, not when she had him to dote and care for her. To love her.

Still it made her heart ache to think of it. Of the easy love that she had known, the knowledge that it was fully reciprocated.

Erik had never had that. He wouldn't have the least idea of how this was supposed to work. But she was new to anything romantic, to fluttering hearts and this strange desire to see what his lips felt like against her own.

She cleared her throat as she pushed away that particular thought. At least for now.

"When I fell in love," she started again, "I had to make sure it was with a man I could love completely. I couldn't pick and choose which parts I decided I would keep, nagging and wheedling until he changed into someone different. Because that isn't fair and I would hate it if he tried to do that to me."

Erik looked up at her sardonically. "Why would anyone suggest that you should change a single hair on your head? You are utter perfection."

Christine smiled, despite herself. "Thank you. You are certainly wrong about that, but it's nice to hear you think well of me." He made to say more, but she shook her head, wanting him to fully comprehend what she was trying to say.

"I want this relationship to be good for you too, not just for me. And I... whether it was too fast, or maybe even a little foolish, I started caring about you the very first day I saw you in that courtroom. I didn't recognize it then—how could I?—but I'm starting to now and..." She paused, collecting her wildly scattering thoughts as Erik continued to stare at her so intently, his unmasked face still so inscrutable. "I only wanted to fall in love once, you know."

His head cocked to the side and she hurried to continue. "My parents did. They'd met in school and just... knew. Papa said maybe there was simply some magic back in Sweden that made that happen because he certainly didn't like many of the American boys I went to school with, but I... I remembered how happy they looked in pictures together. They'd been each other's firsts in everything, and the only heartbreak they'd suffered was when she... when she'd died."

Still staring at her so intently, Erik reached out a long finger and gently stroked her arm in comfort. She hadn't realized that a tear had escaped. Her longings for a mother had long since cooled, her pain more for her father who had lost his love rather than a mother she could barely remember.

"We have not... done so very much," Erik assured her. "If you wish to still find a young, handsome boy to kiss and love and marry. He could still be your firsts."

The way he said it made her fully believe that if she asked it of him, he would allow her to do so. He would pretend that he had forgotten what they had shared, that she had confessed her love and kissed him—if perhaps she had not been brave enough to place her lips upon his.

But how she hated the very thought.

For she knew from his posture, from the way his eyes glistened as he offered her what was the closest thing to freedom he had yet to express, he would not truly forget. He would remain here, saddened and alone, imagining her with her new lover, everything that he could not hope to be.

Yet she didn't want it. It would be simpler. It would be conventional. People would likely not think her mad for remaining with him. But in this moment, she didn't care. Not when the man she loved was offering to let her go and share the sweetest gestures with another, just because he thought she might wish it.

"Erik," she began again, this time kneeling and not wanting to tower, not wanting to do anything but impress upon him just how very much he meant to her. "I don't think you understand. I only wanted those to be because I loved someone. And I'm afraid that you're stuck with me now because I... I love you very much, and I don't want to run off with someone handsome. I just want to be with you." She glanced at their abandoned breakfasts sheepishly. "Even if we can't seem to get through a conversation without me bringing up something horrid."

Erik tugged at her, clearly displeased with her position on the floor, but she refused to rise completely, not liking their imbalance any longer. So she in turn began to push at him and he watched bemusedly as he finally relented and pushed his chair back enough that she might perch upon his knee, draping her arms about his shoulders.

"I am hardly more comfortable than the floor," he protested weakly, although already she felt his fingers sliding to her waist to hold her steady, tentative though they were.

"Maybe," she agreed, his legs bony and lanky. "But this way I still get to be close."

Erik shook his head. "How can you want to?" he finally asked, his voice almost pleading with her for understanding. "You question my actions with Buquet one moment, and the next you're sitting in my lap. You're everything that is good and compassionate, and yet you want to be with _me_, regardless what I've done. How?"

Christine sighed and smoothed a lock of his hair. "You haven't known love, Erik. And I'm not foolish enough to think that you'll know what it means or how to express it. I mean..." she hastened to correct herself. "If you should ever feel that way. Not that you do right now, or that you _will_, just..."

His head tilted slightly to the side, his brow furrowing. "You think I do not feel love?"

"Not that I don't think you're capable!" she clarified. "Just that... I wouldn't want to presume..."

One of his hands left her waist, a lone finger coming to skim the apple of her cheek. "You question my love for you?"

"I…"

"You think that I would go to all this trouble? That I would have hated the very thought of you with your Officer Ryan so very much if I did not love you? Did not want a chance for you to choose to be with me?"

Christine blushed. "You never said."

Erik smiled grimly. "And how should you have liked to hear of my love in those early days? To hear that I dreamed of a time when it might be reciprocated, when I could shower you with gifts and sweet nothings simply to see you smile? It would only have frightened you more, and I'd had quite enough of your tears."

She smiled at him, sorely tempted to simply lean forward and give him a kiss, but also not feeling quite so bold as to actually do it. "And you say that you aren't sorry about things."

Erik sighed, shaking his head. "If I was less of a coward I would have let you be."

Christine shrugged. It was true, and yet, she wasn't going to chastise him for it. Not when she loved him, and not when he made her breakfast, and most certainly not when he possibly, perhaps, loved her as well...

"So... you love me then?"

Erik scoffed and gave her one of his most withering glares, although his eyes were warm and soft as they regarded her. "I suppose I do."

Christine pulled away. "You only suppose?" she repeated, certain he was poking fun at her. And while it amused her, while her heart fluttered that he _did_ in fact seem to love her, she didn't like that he wouldn't simply _say_ it.

But Erik was suddenly grasping her more firmly so that she could not fully free herself. "I love you, my dear Christine. I should not, of that I am certain, but since I first saw you I knew that I could love none but you. And I shall speak the words daily if it should make you happy."

It was no mystery to her why he thought himself so unworthy. None had chosen him, none had thought him a worthwhile companion, instead choosing to spurn and hurt him whenever they could.

But she had.

In that moment she knew that he would have released her. He would have shown her the way out of his underground home and allowed her to live whatever life she so chose. Erik would mourn the loss of her for the rest of his days, but she would be free.

Except that freedom came at too terrible of a price, and she wanted no part of it.

Not when his unhappiness so affected her own.

"I don't know about every day," she murmured, fiddling with one of his pearly buttons on his crisp shirt. "Just most days. Since... since I hope to have a great many here with you."

Erik grew very still, his eyes—those eyes so very nearly hidden by the deep set of his sockets—searched her carefully for any sign of deception.

Any sign that it was foolish to hope that she could be truthful.

"I would let you go," he breathed so quietly that she almost missed it. "Simply ask it and I will do it, though I am sure I would die of despair."

What kind of offer that was she had no idea, and she had to bite back her incredulous response that even at her lowest point, when her fear was cloying and she had quite despised him for having brought her here, she would not have willingly allowed him to die.

But instead she brushed her thumb against his cheek, smiling as he oh so uncertainly turned and placed a kiss upon her palm, and she knew that she could never leave him.

Not when he made her heart feel so very full.

"I belong with you, Erik. Whether that's down here in your home or in the castle you promised me that first day."

His hands clutched at her sweater and she vaguely worried about the wrinkles they surely would have created, but she could not manage any words of chastisement—not when he was looking at her so very intently.

"May I... that is to say... I should very much like to..."

She smiled again at his stuttered response. "What is it you'd like?"

Erik was quiet for a moment before he took a deep breath, his shoulders tense as if already warding off her rejection.

"You do not have to, Christine, and I shall not be cross if you refuse."

She placed her pointer finger over his lips briefly to stem his foolishness.

"Ask me," a part of her, a very great part, hoping that he desired what she very much wished she had the courage to do.

And then suddenly, he did.

"May I kiss you, Christine?"

* * *

Sooo... someone mustered up a bit of courage there! What do you think, will she say yes? And will it actually make it to their lips this time?! And what about Christine's resolve to stay with him? Yay or nay?

Until... hopefully Saturday! But just know, reviews shall spur me to finish up my other story faster so I can give this one the priority it so deserves.


	34. Chapter 34

Whew, so much writing this past week... and my apologies for the lateness of this chapter... but look, it is finally here! _And _my book is finished! Let's not pretend that you want to here all the details on that subject, not when a kiss is possibly looming in the future, so I shall save it for the end and I'll simply say...

Onward!

* * *

XXXIV

"Yes," she murmured breathlessly, the anticipation causing those fluttering feelings to magnify tenfold.

Erik did not move quickly. He did not pull her to him, grasping and seeking as he took advantage of what small permission she had given.

Instead, he searched her eyes carefully for any hint of reticent, before slowly, so maddeningly slowly, he leaned carefully forward and pressed his lips to her cheek.

And Christine could not help but feel disappointed.

As she had expected, his lips were not at all unpleasant. They were cool and smooth, and when he pulled away she found that she missed the feel of them upon her skin.

His eyes were closed, and she watched in fascination as he drew his lower lip into his mouth, as if simply to taste the lingering essence of her.

To prove that it had happened.

"Erik," she prompted, gathering her courage and hoping that she was not asking for more than he was willing to give. "Will you... will you kiss me again? Only..."

Erik's eyes opened quickly, his eyes wary as he waited for her to continue. "Only? Did I... did I do something wrong?"

Christine kicked herself for making him doubt. "No," she assured him quickly. "I just... I was wondering... do you think you'd mind very much if we... kissed on the lips?"

"The lips?" Erik repeated dumbly. "You wish to... truly kiss your Erik?"

Christine wondered if that made her a hussy, to want that so very much as she sat in his lap, as she invited him to stay with her the night before. And now she was dissatisfied with chaste kisses on her cheek, practically demanding that he kiss her properly.

"Only if you want to," she added quietly, her own doubts threatening to take over.

Erik chuckled, and he raised his hand so that his thumb could skim the flesh he had so newly christened. "There is not anything I should like better in the whole of this world than to kiss your pretty lips, Christine."

She smiled at him and to her surprise his hand did not retreat, his long fingers mingling with her curls as he took a steadying breath.

And this time, her eyes fluttered closed as he drew her forward, as his lips met hers, sweetly and softly, before he drew back ever so slightly.

Her first kiss.

His first kiss.

Their shared firsts.

It was all too short and over far too quickly, but still she was unprepared for the feelings it stirred within her. She was still nervous, still unsure that she would know how to be a good enough kisser so not to embarrass herself terribly with him, but more than that, she felt hope.

Hope for their future, hope that things could be well, no matter how unconventional their beginnings might have been.

Because even in this Erik was as tender and loving as ever—as if he could be anything else in regard to her.

Erik was staring at her, and with a lump in her throat she realized he was looking for any signs that she was unwell, that being with him in such a way had not in fact cause her to contract some horrible malady that would be the cause her ultimate demise.

"I'm all right, Erik. Promise. I just..."

He released his gentle hold on her hair, his pointer finger coming and skimming the delicate skin under her eyelid, and with a grimace she noticed the wetness there when he held it up for her inspection.

"I only did as you asked," he moaned in confusion, and then she was the one clutching and grasping, hoping she could make him understand before he gave way to such unneeded despair.

"No, Erik, I'm... I'm happy!"

He eyed her suspiciously. "You do not _seem_ happy."

Christine huffed out a laugh, likely only confirming to him that she'd gone completely mad. "Erik, I cannot explain it. I just... don't you see? We can be like everybody else! Like other couples who have breakfast and kiss because they love each other and... and that makes me happy."

He was still looking at her in that peculiar way, but suddenly he glanced over at the breakfast table his tone thoughtful. "Like everybody else?"

She hoped that hadn't offended him. She hadn't meant that he was any less extraordinary or that he was in any way boring, but it was simply... nice to experience some normalcy again.

Even if it was a new normal that she had never let herself even dream about until very recently.

"Yes," she confirmed, suddenly feeling rather timid with the way he continued to study her so closely. "But only in the best ways."

"The best ways," Erik mimicked yet again, and she wondered why he felt it necessary to repeat everything she said.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked, once again chastising herself for not asking it sooner. He had wept when she had kissed his forehead, but now he seemed remarkably calm if not a little... wary.

"Perhaps," he divulged, his words carefully chosen. "But only... only if Christine liked it."

And there it was again, the boyish way he peered at her, as if his every happiness hinged upon her declaration to come.

How could she not have liked it when it had come from her sweet Erik?

When she loved him?

"It was perfect," she murmured, wiping at her eyes and telling herself firmly not to cry anymore. Not when it worried him so. "I liked it very much. Except," she added, and his eyes snapped to hers, and she hated and loved the concern that she found there. "Except I think it ended a little too quickly."

Erik released a heavy sigh, and she would almost have thought it was reluctance. But when he was kissing her again, this time his lips moving coaxingly against hers as they tested and teased, there could be no doubt of his willingness.

This time she was the one to pull away, her lips unused to the movement and her lungs reminding her that breath was quite necessary if she valued living.

And this time there were no tears, only shy smiles between them both as they stared at one another.

"You must think a bit less of me now, kissing a man on the first date." She had said it in a teasing tone, but even as the words escaped her, she realized that a part of her was indeed worried about that very thing.

But Erik merely tapped her on the nose, his eyes soft as he regarded her. "You are a silly girl," he affirmed, before he helped her from his lap, steadying her with his hands at her waist as she found her footing.

She should be affronted. She was an adult, and she tried very hard not to be _silly_, especially not when Erik was typically the epitome of maturity, but... she could not help the little shiver that went through her at the way he spoke to her, his affection so very obvious even if the words were not so.

But still, some part of her was bothered, and Erik would not be the attentive man she loved so very dearly if he didn't notice.

"What troubles you about it? Do you truly believe I could think less of you when you have bestowed upon me such a precious gift?"

She blushed again, not used to having kisses heralded in such a way, but her worries from earlier must be plaguing her more than she'd realized, as she could not shake the slightly disconcerted feeling that settled over her. "Why are things so easy with you? I... Ever since I first saw you I began to care about you, and then... and then we're here and I want to kiss you and it was lovely and I liked it very much," she did not miss the way Erik's eyes glittered at her praises, "but..."

His head tilted slightly to the side questioningly. "Yes?"

"Are you my boyfriend?"

Maybe if she was sure of their relationship, that they were moving toward something more permanent, her concerns could be abated.

Erik scowled at the title, and she suddenly felt so very small.

"Oh," she replied, ready to go back to her plate and see if she could coax any warmth out of her teapot for comfort.

But Erik was taking her hand even as he tucked a finger under her chin, biding her to look at him.

"I told you before that I do not care for such titles," he reminded her, and she remembered—truly she did. But what did that mean exactly? Erik was... peculiar and eccentric, and while she cared for him deeply—could no longer imagine her life without him in it, there were certain things that were important to her.

Knowing that he was willing to marry her was one.

Maybe not now. Not when things were still so new.

But someday.

Because her papa had always said that marrying her mama had been the best decision they could have made.

Especially since she'd come of that union.

Christine took a careful breath, not sure how to approach the subject. She saw how vehemently he had jumped at the proffered opportunity to hear her sing, and if he was amiable to the prospect of marriage, he might assume she meant _now_.

And she would not marry simply to assuage some silly feeling of worry. She would not. She would marry him when it felt right to do so, with her heart full to bursting as he asked her.

Perhaps even a ring being involved.

"You are very quiet, Christine," Erik scolded her gently. "Tell your Erik what is going on in that pretty head of yours."

She nibbled at her lip, still unsure of her phrasing but knowing that she had to be as clear as possible.

"I don't know what you mean when you say you don't like titles. Does... does that mean that... sometime in the future... we wouldn't be married? You wouldn't want to be a husband?"

He blinked at her.

He stared.

And then he laughed, rising quickly and pulling her into his arms. They had shared quite a bit of contact, some instigated by him, but this felt like the first time he had done so for reasons other than pain or despair.

He did it simply because he wanted to.

"I suppose I should clarify," he murmured between lingering chuckles. "I find the title of _boyfriend_ to be most unappealing. I am far from a boy, and I do so hope to be more than your friend. But I suppose for most young ladies of your age, it would be more common to have such relationships, especially given the duration of our acquaintance."

Christine fiddled with the button on his shirt, noting the perfect stitching that held it so firmly in place. "But... then... what are we exactly?"

"We are Erik and Christine," he answered simply. "And I rather think they belong together just as they are."

She smiled at his certainty, still not wholly convinced herself, but appreciating his confidence. "Do you see them getting married?"

His fingers smoothed through her hair, teasing her curls even as she heard the smile in his voice. "I would marry you this very moment if you would allow it. But I believe I have acted rashly in far too much of our courtship, and you deserve a more proper asking."

She didn't know why she needed to hear that, but she did. Something loosened, some tension she could not quite explain, and she allowed him to hold her close.

"And besides, if it troubles you so greatly to think of it," Erik continued, although he nearly groaned at the mentioning of it. "I too shared my kisses on the first date. Does that make me a hussy?"

And this time it was Christine who could not quite contain her chuckles, pulling back only slightly so she could look at him. "I rather think it does."

He smirked at her, although she could see he held some distaste for that title as well. "Very well, then hussies we shall be." He unwound one hand from about her back so he could waggle a long finger at her. "But only for each other."

Christine acted quickly before he could move again, placing a slightly lopsided kiss to his fingertip, Erik blinking down at her in surprise. "Deal."

-X-

Quite begrudgingly Erik allowed her to help with the breakfast dishes, though he cited numerous times that a gentleman would not permit his lady to do so when in the process of wooing her affections.

She'd only smiled at him and gave him a nudge, holding her hand out for the muffin tin so she could dry it with one of his kitchen towels. "It's a good thing then that you already have my affections."

Erik sniffed indignantly, but proffered the tin obediently.

And even as he did so, she was not oblivious to the way the very corners of his mouth were quirked to the tiniest of smiles, obviously not _too_ unhappy with their little arrangement.

Boo had long since quit the kitchen, and Christine was quite certain they would find him lounging about the living room, washing and napping as was his wont. She'd never had a cat, her life with her papa full and rather busy, and they'd never even broached the subject of adding to their little family. Was it usual for them to sleep so very much?

But Erik did not seem concerned beyond his scowls whenever Boo frequented his favorite chair, and he was much more educated than she.

"What else would you like to do today," she asked him, the kitchen only requiring a bit more effort before it would be restored to its typically pristine state.

"I believe I have already voiced enthusiasm for one particular activity."

She nearly smacked him when at first she thought he was referring to their kisses, at the look he gave her when she gasped in outrage, she quickly amended her thinking. "Singing?"

"Quite so," he replied drolly.

Christine mustered up a tenuous smile, and Erik's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Have you changed your mind so readily? If you recall, I was prepared to take advantage of your whim the moment you presented it, but _someone_ required that we wait."

Christine folded her arms. "Would you rather have had our kisses or heard me sing?"

Erik's mouth opened once, then he promptly closed it. Only to open it again with a roll of his eyes as he answered her. "Do not be absurd."

She managed a much more genuine smile at his orneriness, but still he ceased his work on the counters so he could give her his full attention. "What troubles you at the prospect of singing?"

She wanted to simply shrug, to shy away from the topic entirely, kicking herself for being the one to bring up the subject in the first place—to offer him such a thing when still it sent nerves clutching at her belly and begging her to change her mind.

"Is it about your father?" he prodded further.

Christine sighed, worrying at the dish towel and wishing there was more to dry so she wouldn't have to look at him staring at her so very closely. But it was better to be honest, she reminded herself firmly, and she did so want to at least be able to give him this. "Partly," she started, taking another breath as she tried to collect her thoughts. "I just... I guess I'm just nervous."

Erik's head tilted to the side. "Why? It is merely your Erik you shall perform to."

Christine chuckled, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of that statement.

_Only _her Erik.

That was precisely the problem.

"Erik," she stated patiently, gesturing about his house. "Look around us. You had not a bit of formal education and yet you've created all of this. And then... I heard you on the violin. I've never heard anyone so brilliant and I'd like to think that my papa was one of the most talented men in the state. And then you... you want me to sing for you? How do I even begin to measure up?"

Abandoning the counter completely, Erik stepped forward, his brow furrowed and appearing the perfect picture of confusion. "That particular worry should be the furthest from your mind, Christine! Not when you seem to have been plucked from among the very angels themselves!"

She blushed at that, his earnestness making it quite clear that he actually believed it, but knowing that she by no means was nearly as good as he claimed.

Maybe once she had the potential for it. If things had been different and her papa's death had not robbed her of all her joy.

Now...

Now she was technically proficient. She could hit the notes and customers would tip her after her turn, but something was missing.

Her soul.

And yet Erik claimed that she was good enough now, and she knew—she absolutely knew— that he was lying. Or perhaps if not lying, most severely mistaken.

For she had known a taste of what it was to imbue each song, each melody with the rapture of her very best, and that had long since been unattainable.

She thought back to one of her last performances at the restaurant, the customer who had come to her section only to disappear after she had finished. She had tried then, had wanted to know if she could still do as her papa had taught her—to give her all to the music. And while she had done better, had felt renewed at the simple _trying_, it was not going to compare to Erik's particular brand of genius.

And she didn't feel able to pretend that it would.

And Erik must have seen her conflict, for he sighed deeply, a pained look upon his face. "You do not believe me," he murmured sadly. "You are going to continue to deny me the pleasure of your voice."

Christine saw Erik's hand creep nearer, pulling the dish towel from her grasp so that she had no further distraction to excuse the way she avoided his gaze.

"You'll be disappointed," she told him quite truthfully. "I tried to tell you before but... that part of me was damaged when my papa died, and I... I can't be what you want."

Erik's lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance. "And how is it that you know what I want? What do you presume I am asking of you?"

Christine shifted uncomfortably, not liking when he was irritated with her. "I don't know..."

"No, you do not. You presume and upset yourself with things you do not understand."

Christine winced, for she could readily appreciate his frustration. In those early days when she had yet to comprehend his motivation for taking her, she'd accused him of wanting a great many things from her—and evidently she still possessed a penchant for doing so.

"I'm sorry," she offered truthfully.

Erik tapped his fingers on the counter, regarding her. "It is true that I have... thought of teaching you. Of perfecting and tuning your instrument until you far exceeded any other. I have a great deal of compositions you know, buried down here in the ground with none to appreciate them. And there was a time, when I was locked away in that monstrosity of a holding cell that I thought of you bringing them to the stage—and that was before I had even heard you sing!"

Christine continued to look up at him warily, not entirely sure of where this was going.

She already knew that she had very little desire to take to the stage, but she would correct him on that point when he'd finished.

"But I find that my dreams have altered of late, and are of a far more... domestic ideal."

He glanced pointedly at the sink still full of sudsy water, waiting to be let out when the last of the crumbs had been divested into their foamy depths.

"Really?" Christine questioned, hoping that it was indeed true.

"Really," Erik confirmed. "But that does not however follow that I should like to go the rest of my days without the benefit of hearing your voice. It is a beautiful thing, Christine, and I should hate for you to squander it, even if you should only perform for me. Is that such a terrible request?"

Christine shook her head, trying to decide if she could do as he had asked.

And with the way he looked at her, an almost pleading quality to the expression, as if it would truly mean so very much to him that she would share in this pursuit with him…

It felt impossible to say no.

"All right," she finally managed, nervous but perhaps just a bit excited at the idea all the same. She could do this, she assured herself. This was Erik and he loved her, and that would be enough.

"Excellent," Erik announced, already taking her hand and leading her from the kitchen, evidently intent on not giving her time to change her mind by finishing the dishes properly.

And then he had pulled a coat out so she would be comfortable for the short trip across the lake, and then he allowed her to place one last kiss to Boo's sleeping head—cuddled as he was against the arm of Erik's chair—before they had departed for the music room.

But when they entered, Christine gave a yelp of fright and surprise.

For they were most definitely not alone, the figures of two men greeting her in what was supposed to be Erik's private domain.

"Gentlemen," Erik addressed them crisply, quickly moving in front of her. "To what do I owe this great honor?"

* * *

Sooo... Looks like they have some visitors! Anyone want to take a guess? And they kissed! HUZZAH! Only took them 34 chapters to get there... I'd love to hear what you thought! Is it everything you'd hoped?

For those of you who are interested in my other works, I'd love to introduce you to my latest novel. _The Making of a Lady_ is now available through Amazon (the print edition soon to follow... just waiting for my proof to come in so I can approve it!). I cannot provide direct links but you can simply type in the title and my name (Catherine Miller) and it shall appear. And now, a brief description!

Bonnie is but a little thing when she is forced to bear witness to the cruel separation of the prince's mother from her beloved son and his future kingdom. Too young and earnest to realise her error, she offers the prince comfort in the form of a listening ear and hugs the best in all the world. Of lowly birth and little means, Bonnie tends quietly to her scullery work in the kitchens to keep her own mother well and happy, enduring the cruel temper of Cook, yet never forsaking her friendship and growing affections for the lonely prince. Though the passing of years and the suffering of heavy trials do more and more to make evident the great chasm between their stations, Bonnie has too loving a heart to forget the prince entirely, and despite the impossibility of such an idea, cannot help but think of him as her very own.

Under the watchful supervision of a malcontented king, Prince Cyrus struggles to maintain his royal birthright while still holding fast to the demands of his own conscience. The battles he faces become ever more egregious as his uncle casts an all too knowing eye upon the one he holds most dear, and proves he will stop at nothing to secure the kingdom for his own. When Bonnie's life is threatened, Cyrus must face a terrible quandary—what cost is too great to protect the one he loves?

If those names seem at all familiar, this is a companion story to _A Nymph Without Mercy, _but by no means do you need to have read one to understand the other.

Anyway, enough from me. Until next Saturday!


	35. Chapter 35

I almost wasn't able to post this today due to "widespread internet outages" that had "no estimated end." But then suddenly for this short pocket of time it has appeared! So I'll take hurried advantage before it decides to disappear again. Thanks to all your continued support! This chapter begins another shift in this little tale.

(Oh, and quick other note. _The Making of a Lady _is now also available in paperback!)

Anyway, onward!

* * *

XXXV

Christine was not particularly afraid of either of the two men before her, but still she was glad to have Erik standing between them, a steady and welcome presence when their appearance was so wholly unexpected.

But as she regarded them, both appeared rather startled—as if they had not readied themselves for the possibility of Erik and herself popping through the hidden doorway. Did that mean they did not know of its existence?

"Well? Which of you is going to explain your purpose first? Or shall I simply have the pleasure of evicting you from my home without a word from either of you?"

Mr. Chagny cleared his throat and sent a wary glance to Mr. Nadir. "I apologize for the interruption, but I had pressing news that I thought you would care to hear, and you are... rather difficult to reach."

Christine would have laughed at that if she wasn't so nervous for them both. Erik had listened to her when she had asked him not to hurt his previous prisoners, but this was a direct intrusion to his home—and he did not seem particularly glad of their company. And she still did not know why they were here, or if they had brought the police with them again…

"I had rather thought you would still be wandering about upstairs," Erik directed at the Daroga, his tone biting, "and yet here you are. I take it you were ever so glad to offer your services as guide. One would think you should merely begin selling tickets, so many you have brought to my humble abode."

Mr. Nadir shifted uncomfortably, and to Christine's surprise, he nodded in her direction. "Should the matter pertain solely to you, I would have left you quite alone. But since it involves the girl..."

Erik stiffened and Christine stepped a little nearer, peering out from behind his shoulder. She didn't expect anyone else to understand her relationship with Erik. They didn't need to. But she supposed from the outside, their attachment was a curious thing and he might… he might presume what had been so very true in the beginning.

That she didn't want to be with Erik and yet he had not cared, keeping her locked away until she changed her mind.

Only… hadn't that been what happened?

She didn't like to think of it that way. That made it seem like Erik had manipulated her, when it was just his sweetness, his kindness, his earnest manner that had caused her to love him.

And while she knew that with the whole of her being, she doubted other people could so readily understand it.

But no policemen were popping out from behind the walls, no detective with their brusque manners and cold handcuffs ready to haul her Erik away.

So perhaps she was wrong.

"Is it something bad?" she asked quietly, her worries swiftly taking on a very different sort than before. She had thought that things were finished when they had delivered Erik's defendants to Mr. Chagny—that they would face trial and both she and Erik could live out their days as they pleased.

But at Mr. Chagny's rather pinched expression, the saddened look about his eyes, she supposed she should not have been so confident.

Yet as he opened his mouth to answer her, Erik cut in quickly. "Perhaps we should discuss this matter in private."

Christine hesitated, a part of her agreeing with him and wanting to hide away with Boo while they sorted out whatever business had brought these two here. But that would be cowardly, and that was a tiresome thing.

"Thank you, Erik, but I think… I think I'd like to hear what they have to say."

Erik gave her a dubious look as he glanced behind him, and she could offer him no firm argument, no assurance that she would be all right with whatever they had to tell her.

Not when she was so unsure of it herself.

But with a grimace he returned his attention to Mr. Chagny, giving a nod to continue.

The man cleared his throat a bit awkwardly, touching his collar as if to straighten a tie that she realized now was curiously missing from his throat. It was an odd thing, for his top collar button to be undone, no flamboyant fabric so carefully positioned there.

She wondered at its absence, but now was not the time for such questions.

Especially not when the lawyer was looking at her with such sympathy, even as his words were addressed to Erik. "I'm afraid that... one of your _guests_ mentioned Christine's presence while relating their rendition of their ordeal. The police would like to bring her in for an interview."

Erik snorted. "For questioning, you mean. Do not mince words, Mr. Chagny, it does not become you."

The man shrugged. "Fine. Christine has been implicated as an accomplice. And given the rather incredible nature of their stories as well as the publicized nature of your trial, the authorities are taking things very seriously."

Publicized? She had heard nothing of it, but then, she supposed she wouldn't have. She had no subscription to the newspaper, had no television to call her own. Had Erik's picture been bandied about on the evening news as they branded him a murderer? She shuddered to think of it. Her poor Erik, who so carefully shielded himself from those who could never understand him, so publically paraded for a crime he did not commit.

And now, when the perpetrators of that same crime had finally confessed, that she should be wanted for questioning—as if she had been a part of some scheme…

Christine paled, her throat suddenly feeling tight. "But I... I didn't... What was I supposed to do?"

Both newcomers exchanged looks. "Think carefully before you answer, Miss Christine," Mr. Chagny counseled her, pointedly ignoring Erik's menacing glare. "If you were to suggest that there was nothing you could have done for those in Erik's... care... then you are stating that he held you against your will. If he was not, then you were indeed complicit in their kidnapping and subsequent captivity and could therefore be subject to prosecution. So, I ask you, which was it?"

Christine flinched, and took a step backward, hating the three sets of eyes that stared at her, the confines of the room feeling oppressive about her.

She hadn't wanted this. She had done the best she could, had done everything possible to keep those people safe while also appeasing Erik's quest for justice, and now…

Now they thought her a criminal.

She stumbled further back, back to the wall with the hidden door, wanting the exit, wanting the lake, wanting nothing more to shut out these men with their impossible questions, but Erik was suddenly before her, his hands firm upon her shoulders as he bade her look at him. "Christine," he addressed her almost sharply, her gaze finding his immediately. "You are not to blame for this. For any of it. Simply tell him that I... I brought you here without your consent, that you were merely another of my prisoners, and all shall be well."

"No!" she blurted out, startling herself with the volume of it. "No," she stated again in a softer tone, although she lost none of her vehemence. "I can't do that. I _won't_ do that. Not when they can charge you for it."

She took a deep breath, forcing down the panic that bubbled within her, turning so she could question Mr. Chagny directly. "I don't think there's any answer I can give that would make it so I could live with the outcome. So I'm... I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse to give one at all."

He smiled grimly at her response, sharing another look with the man to his side, and she grew distinctly annoyed at their silent conversation.

And, evidently, so did Erik. "Oh, for pity's sake, if you wish to say something, simply do so!"

Mr. Nadir cleared his throat. "I am... confused by your relationship," he stated softly, staring at Erik all the while as he did so.

Erik's hands fell away from her, and she noted with some worry how his hands trembled at his sides before he made them into fists. "Is that so?" he replied evenly. Dangerously.

Christine reached down and grasped at one of those tightly held fists, coaxing it to open enough so her fingers could entwine with his. "That's personal," she declared with as much firmness as she could muster, her heart not yet slowing from her earlier panic. "And I'd rather discuss the question of my freedom if that's all right with you."

Erik glanced down at her sharply and she forced herself not to grimace as she thought of how he might have construed those words. He had been the one to take it away from her in the beginning, to deny her pleas to return home—to go back to her dull but familiar life without him.

But now Erik's home held more warmth to her than her shabby apartment ever had, and the prospect of being forced to leave it—to pay for those scraps of happiness they had found as she was taken away to prison...

Her grip on his hand tightened.

"Christine," Erik murmured lowly beside her. "I have told you, you need never pay for my actions."

She looked up at him then, his face still uncovered from this morning, and she smiled at him sadly. "What you did was against me, Erik," she began, noting his barely perceptible flinch. "But because of that, I think I should be the one that decides your penance. And I won't have anyone punishing you for it. Not when you can repay me with all sorts of wonderful things instead."

She supposed that could sound rather materialistic—that somehow he could buy his forgiveness by plying her with enough beautiful things to smooth over the hurts he had caused. But in truth she was thinking of his kisses, his shy smiles, and she realized sheepishly, above all, the delicious food he seemed only too happy to prepare for her.

Erik seemed torn between looking at her tenderly and once again questioning her sanity, so he settled on an odd mix between the two.

Mr. Chagny shifted uncomfortably. "I appreciate your desire to protect my client, Miss Christine," he began warily. "Truly I do. It was invaluable in the jury room, I'm sure, but I must remind you..." he gave Erik a careful look before continuing. "You need to think about yourself now too. I won't pressure you, I won't force you, and I most definitely won't be telling the police where they can find you," his eyes shifted briefly to the doorway that had once again smoothed into the seemingly solid wall of the music room, "but I'm afraid this isn't going to just go away."

Christine worried at her lip, not knowing what she should do. She didn't think she could lie to the police like that even if she did consent to questioning. She _had_ known what Erik was doing. Maybe not in the very beginning, but eventually she did. She had contributed to coaxing their confessions. She'd even gone with him quite happily to deliver their persons to Mr. Chagny when she'd had ample opportunity to run off to the police station to report not only their kidnapping but her own.

But she hadn't.

She hadn't done any of that.

Because through it all, she loved Erik and didn't want to lose him.

And even now as she leaned heavily against his arm, resigned to paying for those contributions, she realized that she might very well just have to.

"What of you, Daroga? Are you going to remain silent as well on the subject of Christine's whereabouts?"

Erik's voice was cutting, as if there was nothing he expected more than the man to leave here and immediately announce her presence to the authorities.

Yet the man sighed deeply and continued to watch Christine with that dry fascination as she entwined her arm about Erik's. He was not particularly yielding. He did not wrap his arm about her nor reveal any indications that her touch was overly welcome, but Christine did not mind, not really. While she longed for him to hold her, to assure her that things would be all right _without_ him indulging that ridiculous notion that she turn him over to the police, her Erik was a private man. She was certain he was embarrassed about being without his mask in front of these men, whether or not they had seen him without it before. And for him to be affectionate also...

That was simply asking too much of him.

Mr. Nadir also cast an interested look to the hidden doorway, his interest obviously piqued at what lay beyond, but Erik shuffled them slightly to the left so as to inhibit his view. "Well?"

The man sighed. "Regardless of my personal perspective on your little show, I have no desire to see Christine incarcerated for your error in judgment." He ran a hand through his black hair, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I am not even certain I should like to see _you_ incarcerated for it, not when I... I was so very wrong to have conspired with the police in the first place."

Christine was surprised by his admission for he seemed a very prideful sort of man, and she glanced upward to catch Erik's reaction.

He merely blinked placidly, his mouth set in a grim line.

Of course.

Because only she was able to astonish her Erik with her apparent bouts of absurdity.

"How very generous of you," he eventually sneered, his lip curling as he spoke. "I should have thought you would be quite happy to find any means in which to put me away for life."

The Daroga gave him a pitying look that was obviously not appreciated. "You deliberately misunderstand me then if you think that is the case."

Erik waved his hand dismissively, apparently finished with the subject as he turned his attention back to Mr. Chagny. "So what do you propose she do?"

His hand went again to his neck to fiddle with his tie, his eyes taking on a pinched appearance when he yet again met with its absence, his hands dropping back to his sides. "I cannot in good conscience be her legal counsel when her best defense is to accuse my client of wrongdoing. I'd be sacrificing one to save the other, and I... I won't do that."

Christine understood that, and it was to his credit that he would refuse her case, but that still left her feeling lost and wholly confused. Despite his odd taste in clothes, his slightly too long hair, and the way Erik hated when she spoke to him, he had defended Erik admirably when no one else had.

No one except her, that is.

And the idea of having to face detectives and the inevitable trial that followed with a stranger as her attorney, with no trust already formed between them...

The panic was rapidly returning.

"So your presence here is simply a prolonged nuisance since you have nothing further to relate," Erik surmised, his frustration seeping into his every word.

"I have friends," Mr. Chagny offered to Christine. "Good people that could defend you and ease you through the process. You don't have to go through this alone."

And then Erik's arm was about her, pulling her close as he stood tall beside her, a protective figure if ever there was one. "She was never going to do so."

Christine's heart warmed at his words. For so long she had been alone—had to carry the burdens of life without someone else to share them. But now... now she had Erik.

And she was determined to keep it that way.

"Can we... can we talk about things and get back to you? Or will that be too late?" She swallowed thickly as she considered what that meant—of the possibility that more police could storm this place and drag them both away, forever to be parted.

Or perhaps not forever.

Just however long a jail sentence would be.

She shuddered even to think of it.

Mr. Chagny gave her a soft smile, although his worry for her was still readily evident. "Of course. Discuss things and perhaps you can phone my office when you've made a decision?" This he directed toward Erik, obviously uncertain if he had such a capability, but Erik nodded presently.

Christine had never seen a phone in his underground home, but she supposed that did not mean so very much. She had not known that a coffin resided in the room beside hers until she had ventured there. It was impossible to say what else Erik had squirreled away in some of the more secret places of his dwelling.

Their meeting drawing to a close, Christine was more than willing to return to Erik's comfortable couch and discuss things properly, but she hesitated as both groups began to turn to go their separate ways. "Mr. Nadir?"

The man stopped and turned, his dark eyebrow quirked in question. "I... I should like to have your word that you won't interfere again. I know you wanted to help Erik last time, but... I'm not sure I trust your brand of help."

Erik snorted beside her and she felt his hand settle at her back, his thumb making affectionate circles against the fabric of her sweater.

Mr. Nadir sighed. "No, I don't suppose you would." He glanced toward Erik and Christine watched the silent exchange, wondering at their history that enabled them to engage in such a silent form of communication. "I hope you know what you are doing, Christine," the man replied at last. "You've chosen a difficult life, and I hope that you do not come to regret it."

Difficult?

Erik had his moments. His eccentricities abounded, their conversation was often stilted by miscommunications, but even in that they were improving.

And the comfort she found with him, the affection, the understanding—those made the rest so completely worth it.

So Christine shook her head and stepped a little closer to Erik and his tender touches. "Not so very difficult," she corrected, knowing that it was true.

The man smiled at her, though his eyes revealed that he thought her quite mistaken, quite naive for her words. "Very well, if you would prefer, I shall not meddle. You have my word. But Erik," he entreated, his voice firm. "You are prone to selfish choices, and I'd suggest you see to it that Christine is well protected."

Christine glanced upward and saw Erik's eyes narrowed. "That is perhaps one of the stupidest suggestions you have ever given me, Daroga. As if I needed any such reminder."

The man raised his hands defensively, and returned to the exit, his hands running over the smooth wall in search of the catch that would release them to the tunnels beyond.

Erik seemed perfectly content to allow him to remain there rather than offer assistance, but eventually the door swung open, the dark and foreboding tunnels beyond revealed.

Christine shivered as the draft hit her, and she regretted not bringing her coat. Erik had promised her a warm fire which would accompany her as she sang, but the intruders had made him quite forget his promise.

She was cold and ready for a warm blanket and a cheery fire as she nestled against Erik and listened to his grand plan of making this wretched business go away.

"Chagny," Erik called as the two men made to leave from the newly revealed exit, the lawyer stopping at his name.

"Yes?"

"They _are_ going to prosecute them, will they not? They are not so dense as to let them go?"

Mr. Chagny's lips thinned and Christine remembered that it was his brother that was supposed to be on the case, and she doubted that he liked to hear him besmirched in such a way. "There was talk about letting them go once news of their kidnapping hit. But their confessions make sense with the evidence and Philippe thinks they can make the charges stick this time. They're still in the hospital for now while things get sorted out, but they'll be taken into custody when a doctor releases them."

"Hospital?" she repeated, suddenly uneasy. They had seemed fine enough to her. Erik had promised them food and water, and there were no bruises beyond where their bonds had kept them immobile against their struggles.

Had she stood by while they'd been badly hurt?

"Not to worry, Miss Christine," Mr. Chagny soothed. "They had to be checked out when we'd first found them, just to be sure, and after... well, it's a little difficult to know what to do with them. There's a case to build you see, and we typically like to wait until we know more before making any arrests."

Erik scoffed beside her, and she took his hand, this time being the one to make comforting circles with her thumb, though proper contact was impeded by the return of his leather gloves.

He waited for her to nod her thanks before disappearing back through the tunnels, the door closing firmly behind him as he went.

"Are you all right?" Erik murmured beside her, and he raised her chin with his forefinger so he could evaluate her to his satisfaction.

She smiled grimly and nodded, suddenly feeling weary. "Just take me home, Erik. We've got a lot to talk about."

* * *

Sooo... looks like Raoul and the Daroga got their trip to Erik's lair after all. Points to those who guessed it! What do you think is up next for our lovely couple? Will Erik turn himself in? Can Christine cut a deal? Guess we'll have to wait and see...

I look forward to reading your theories!


	36. Chapter 36

Not much to say today! I could whinge for a great deal about the harrowing experience that is trying to find a new doctor, but instead I shall just let Erik and Christine have the floor.

Onward!

* * *

XXXVI

Both were quiet as they made their way back to the main part of Erik's home, lost in their own thoughts and troubles. Christine wasn't even certain of where to begin, but whenever she thought of something to ask, one look at Erik's grim expression kept her silent.

She remembered the sweetness of their date and Erik's excitement for her to sing, and she dearly wished she could have at least given him that before all this unpleasantness had started. But her throat felt tight and strained and she was dangerously close to tears, and she doubted Erik would be very impressed with a croaked rendition of something meant for beauty.

Boo glanced up at their approach, stretching amiably before hurrying closer, Christine scooping him up before he could escape to the lake beyond. She kissed him and held him close, walking back toward the sofa and sitting down wearily, his warm body a comforting presence against her. "Would you miss me if I went to prison?" she asked him mournfully, golden eyes blinking back at her before he began to wriggle, evidently quite finished with her clutching.

She released him with a sigh, only to find Erik staring at her from across the doorway, making no move even as Boo twined about his legs, rubbing his head against the dark pant legs.

"Do you truly think I would allow such a thing to happen?"

Christine shrugged and grabbed a pillow, a poor replacement for Boo, but she needed something to hold. "You went," she reminded him.

Erik shook his head and disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving her with her thoughts as Boo and his traitorous stomach scampered after him.

Christine wanted more pleasant moments, for her to explore Erik and their fledgling love, with dates and gentle words as they learned about one another. But they seemed doomed for difficulties, and she hated it.

She leaned her head back against the couch cushions and closed her eyes, praying for simpler times or even for sleep to take her, just so that her thoughts could turn from the whirl of worry that seemed determined to plague her.

Her eyes fluttered open at Erik's approach, and to her surprise he came holding two mugs, one significantly smaller than the other, the larger of which he placed on a coaster closest to her. "I am told that it helps when discussing unpleasant matters."

"Oh," she murmured, her voice hitching as she stared at the contents of the mug, the melting marshmallows floating amongst a sea of liquid chocolate, tears coming unbidden to her eyes.

For even with the prospect of legal woes before her, she knew then, much as she ever had, that he was worth it.

Erik was worth it.

And they could work out the rest together.

She pushed the pillow away and took hold of her cup, taking a sip and allowing the warmth to soothe her, hoping that Erik hadn't noticed her tears. But from the way he watched her, his gaze so careful and attentive, she doubted he missed them.

The flavor was different than the mixture she had concocted for him, somehow richer and less cloying, with an undertone she couldn't quite place.

Her brow furrowed and she swirled the contents gently, though she doubted they would reveal their secrets through any such coaxing.

"Is it to your satisfaction?"

Christine smiled at him, a thin thing but genuine. "It's delicious, but I can't quite tell what you've done with it."

Erik's eyes glittered and he took a sip from his own mug, and she noticed that his only held a single marshmallow—enough to assuage her previous insistence at their presence, but not enough to making sipping difficult. "You've suffered quite a shock, I thought that a humble dosage of spirits would not be unwelcome."

Christine spluttered and suddenly held the mug away from her, eying it with new suspicion. "You..."

"Calm yourself, Christine, it is very mild. And you are above age, are you not?"

She huffed at that. "Well, yes..."

"Then I fail to see the problem, as you already have claimed to appreciate the taste."

Christine drew her bottom lip into her mouth, her tongue swiping over the lingering flavor, considering. The issue of alcohol was not one that she had given a great deal of thought to. Her birthday had come and gone, and though there was a vague awareness that there were now privileges that could be hers if she'd wanted them, she hadn't the money to begin experimenting with new beverages.

And her papa had been killed by a drunk driver...

But she wasn't driving anywhere, was simply home with her... with Erik, and he couldn't possibly have put so very much into her mug to have made drinking it dangerous.

Not when he was so very careful with her.

She took another trusting sip and relished the warm feeling as it settled in her belly, and she relaxed back into the cushions. "Why do you think Mr. Chagny wasn't wearing a tie?"

Erik's eyes narrowed and he looked at her shrewdly. "Disappointed?"

She gave him an exasperated glare. "We're not going to quarrel about him again are we?"

Erik sniffed, but ignored her. "If I was forced to guess, I would say that the Daroga counseled him against wearing anything that might draw my mind to more... gruesome pursuits."

Christine blinked at him, not at all understanding his meaning.

"Strangulation," Erik clarified patiently.

"What? He... he would have told him not to wear a tie just in case you decided to... to what? Strangle him in front of me with it?"

Erik shrugged and took another sip of his concoction. "It would not be unusual for him to suggest others use such precautions."

Christine's indignation rose. "And do you typically have unrestrained urges to strangle people?"

Erik smirked. "Most people do not suddenly appear in my music room, interrupting precious time with my Christine."

Christine didn't know how to react to such a statement. A part of her was flattered that he would value her company so highly, but the other part shivered, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. He had never fully answered her regarding what had happened with Mr. Buquet, his insistence that Erik had tried to strangle him up there in the rafters, and for Erik to be so glib about it now...

Erik continued to stare, but this time he shook his head. "I would not have forced you to witness such a thing, my dear, no matter my personal feelings on the subject."

But that was not the same thing as not doing it at all.

Christine swallowed, forcing away the lump that had settled there as she diverted her thoughts to other things, not wanting to dwell on Erik's dubious view of human life. She could love him, even understand his perspective on such things and how he had formed his low opinions of people in general, but it still disturbed her to see it so evidenced.

"What are we going to do, Erik?" she finally asked, her tone almost pleading. She wanted him to make this whole messy business disappear, to hide it away and promise her that things would be well.

And most importantly, that she would not lose him in the process.

Yet despite the heavy nature of the subject, Erik seemed to preen at her use of _we_, and she found that she rather liked the thought of that also.

"They are simply investigating. It is always an embarrassment to the police department when a case is overturned and their methods questioned, so they are attempting to be thorough."

Christine nibbled at her lip, still finding the sweetness there from Erik's carefully made hot chocolate. "But they won't find me at my apartment, and that'll be suspicious."

"True," Erik relented, "though I believe it is your sudden disappearance from your place of work that would concern them more. It was very naughty of you to not have given proper notice."

Christine's mouth dropped open, fully ready to protest his trespass on her character when it was of course _he _that made it impossible for her to continue there. But then she saw the tightness about his mouth, the way he was suddenly glancing away from her, and she saw his clumsy attempt at humor for what it was.

Guilt.

He had brought her into this, had blustered and pressed and taunted his way through a mock trial into mutual confession, and now there was the potential that she would be the one to pay the price for his own doing.

How that must weigh on him.

Christine set her mug back upon its coaster and took his free hand between hers, not entirely certain of what she wished to say. It was his fault and there was no point in denying it. If he had not been so hasty, had found another way—one safer and could at least fall within a semblance of legality—then they could have continued as they were.

But he hadn't.

And she had not begged him to.

For she was coming to realize that even then, when their accord was so very new, if she had asked it of him—had truly and earnestly asked it of him—he would have found another way.

But it was a foolish thing to simply think of what might have been when they needed to plan for now.

A thought niggled at her mind, a snippet of law from she knew not where, that might at least have the potential to help them…

Even if she didn't think herself prepared for its inaction.

She swallowed and rubbed at Erik's hand with her thumb, considering. He was the one with the brilliant mind, and she would seem awkward and silly for mentioning it if she was mistaken on how things truly worked. But if it helped…

"Erik," she began carefully, her blush already rising even as she considered it. "Is it… is it true that married people can't be forced to testify against each other?"

Erik tensed beside her. "Yes," he admitted slowly, and she could feel his gaze heavy upon her even as she continued to stare at their entwined hands, leather against skin. "Why do you ask?"

Christine hesitated but continued. "I know… I know you think this is all your fault, and you want to protect me. But Erik… I meant what I said before. I won't have you sacrificing yourself for me. I won't let you shoulder all of the blame so that I can go on living without you. I'd be miserable if you were locked away and I…" she forced down the tears that stung at her eyes. "I don't want to be all alone again."

She'd have Boo, of course she would, but he was theirs. Hers and Erik's.

"Christine," he comforted, leaning forward to place his own mug down upon a coaster before tucking his hand beneath her chin and bidding her to look at him. "No law of man shall tear me away from you, not when I have secured your love. There was no purpose in fighting my conviction before—my existence was a listless one until you."

She blinked, trying to keep from crying for she knew it would only hurt him more. "But if we were married, then at least if… if things don't go your way, we couldn't… they couldn't make us…"

Erik smiled at her grimly even as his eyes were tender and he stroked her cheek softly. "I cannot adequately describe how it thrills me to hear you speak of our marriage." He learned closer to her, cautiously, waiting for her to move, to show some sign of rejection, before he placed a kiss upon her temple.

It was a soft brush of his lips, but it was enough to send butterflies through her stomach, even as she was dangerously close to sobbing and throwing herself into his arms for comfort.

"But I fear, my sweet Christine, that there is a flaw in your plan. Numerous, in fact."

Christine drew back. He needn't mock her.

"Flaws?"

Erik nodded. "Yes. The first is that unfortunately our marriage license would be commissioned after the date of the… shall we say, our guests' arrivals, and therefore spousal privilege is rather limited in such instances. Some could even argue that we married only for the sake of impeding prosecution, which could be seen as fraudulent and incur even more penalties."

Christine sighed, feeling rather deflated. "Oh."

He did not need to continue as she realized then how foolish her suggestion had been, but Erik coaxed her closer so she was nestled against him, her head against his shoulder. "The second, and most important reason, is that you deserve a far better proposal of marriage. I would not have you accept my offer out of fear—even if that fear is miraculously not of my person. At least," he reflected, glancing down at her, "I am given to believe it is not."

Christine closed her eyes and relished in their shared contact. "It's not," she confirmed. Even if some of the things he said frightened her—of ties and strangling and the impulse to do harm—he treated her so gently, so sweetly, that it was impossible for her to feel anything but safe cocooned as they were in the shelter of his home.

But how secure was it really when a man who was not his friend could so easily penetrate its defenses?

And how long before he managed to do so again now that he knew there was a doorway beyond?

"Does that mean you think about it too sometimes? Us being married?" They had broached the subject before over their squabbles over the use of labels, but she found that she liked the distraction—to dream of pleasant things even in the midst of so much potential unhappiness.

Erik scoffed beside her. "It is impossible to not do so when you are near."

Christine peered up at him, trying to discern his meaning. "Which part?"

Erik stiffened slightly. "Pardon?"

"Which part of marriage do you think about? Just calling me wife, or our wedding or…"

As soon as she thought of it, she already knew the answer, her cheeks flaming, and she suddenly wished to bury her head against his sleeve to hide them from him.

The more _intimate _aspects to marriage.

Erik was looking at her carefully—warily—as if to discern her reaction from just her silence alone.

And by the way he grimaced it was clear he had reached some kind of conclusion.

"Of course you should find the idea distasteful," Erik murmured, almost more to himself than to her. "Forgive your Erik his foolishness."

Did she?

She had enjoyed his kisses very much, the touch of his fingers sending a host of butterflies a fluttering through her stomach with merely a brush. But she was so very inexperienced, yet…

The idea of it, of being with _him…_

With her Erik…

It did not repulse her.

If anything the thought of the act itself still left her feeling rather confused. She had not escaped school without the mandated lectures on the subject, but her mortification at the entire process had her studying her blank notebook as she doodled safe pictures, a valiant effort to distract herself from things like _condoms _and _infections, _leaving little room for any clarifying questions.

And while she had adored her papa, he had not been the sort that liked to discuss such matters. When he'd first handed her supplies for her menses he'd gone all pink about the ears, stuttering and complaining even as she'd looked at him in confusion. It was nearly another year before she'd even needed them, but when the blood had first come and she'd remembered her father's stumbling assurance that it was all normal and she shouldn't worry, she was ever so grateful for the things he'd purchased that she'd so carelessly stuffed in the back of a cupboard.

But Erik seemed knowledgeable about things. Perhaps not in practice—most _assuredly_ not in practice—but she doubted there was any subject he left unstudied, whether or not he believed he would be fortunate enough to find a wife who would consent to such matters.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, suddenly very aware of what her papa had felt when he'd had to broach such a topic, possibly before its time. But it was better to address things early, rather than wait and allow fears to fester.

"I'm... I most certainly am not repulsed by you or by the... by the idea of... doing that." Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she could not bring herself to look at him.

Christine felt rather than saw the dubious look he gave her, and she quickly interjected before he could spout more nonsense. "And don't you dare say that I cannot. You didn't believe that I could love you but I do, and you do not get to dictate my feelings on these things, Erik, no matter how you might like to!"

During her outburst she'd managed to glance up at him, and he had that shocked and wary look about him that she was coming to know so familiarly.

Well.

If he didn't like the way she thought, then he should have picked someone else to love.

But he hadn't, and now he could not frighten her away with his doubts.

"My apologies, Christine," Erik assured her placatingly. "I would never attempt to influence your _feelings_."

Christine snorted at his tone as it related mild distaste, but then, what man was not at least a little frightened of his lady's whimsies?

And generally with good reason.

She sobered quickly, however, when she remembered their more urgent discussion, and she sighed deeply. "You've managed to dash my plan to bits, so what have you come up with?"

Erik hesitantly reached for her and plucked at one of her curls, tucking it away and smoothing it as he fussed. "I did not mean to belittle your suggestion, my dear. And selfishly, I would have quite liked to have made you believe it had merit, simply for the sake of you agreeing to become my wife of your own volition."

She wasn't ready. Knew that she wasn't.

But then... what did it even mean, this title of wife?

To belong to one man, to have him be hers in turn, to share his name, to share his home...

None of that seemed so very difficult, or so very different than what she did now— even though she was fairly doubtful over the matter of sharing a name. If the court hadn't been able to locate a last name for him, with all their great resources, was it possible that he simply didn't have one?

But that would mean he had no birth certificate, and she knew that you needed one of those to obtain a marriage license...

Yet surely there was more to marriage than that. She was not so naïve as so think that it would be easy. People got divorced far too frequently for it to be anything but challenging. Ms. Poligny had even proven capable of murder when it came to assuaging her anger with her husband, but as Christine considered her Erik, she could not imagine a time when she could hate him so very much.

And then she blushed again for her thoughts being caught up in the subject of marriage yet again.

"You can ask me someday, if you'd like," she managed to assure him, plucking at her sleeves and avoiding the way his eyes burned into her. "I think that I'd... I'd say yes."

Erik drew in a sharp breath and she peeked at him. There was surprise, yes, and perhaps a little incredulity, but above all, he looked at her so fondly, so tenderly, that it made her heart flutter in response.

"We're not engaged," she informed him firmly, and he nodded quickly. "You said I should have a proper proposal when the time is right, and that isn't now. Not when I might be going to prison."

Erik seemed rather disheartened by that for he sighed deeply. "Christine, you must stop suggesting such things. You are not, and never will be in danger of incarceration."

"You keep saying that, but that doesn't tell me anything! What are we going to _do_?"

Erik's lips thinned and she realized how shrill and exasperated she'd sounded and she immediately quieted. "I'm sorry," she told him earnestly. "I know you aren't used to having to explain things."

Erik looked at her through narrowed eyes. "No, I am not." He was silent for a long moment and she stamped down her desire to remind him that she was still in ignorance, before he groaned softly. "But that does not mean that I should not make an attempt to do so."

To Christine's surprise, he left the sofa and she watched him disappear down the hallway. If this was his idea of improving upon his prowess as explanation-giver, she very strongly objected. Her right side suddenly felt cold and herself altogether abandoned, and when Boo appeared, two forepaws pressed into the sofa cushion as he peered over the top to ensure his welcome, Christine had no compunctions about helping him into Erik's newly vacated position.

Though she could not contain her laugh when Erik reappeared and stared blankly at Boo as he cuddled up against her thigh.

"You left," she reminded him plainly. "And we evidently have a rogue that likes to take advantage."

"I shall remember that in future," Erik replied drolly, coming to stare down Boo, who cared nothing for the tinge of menace in Erik's gaze.

With a sigh on his part and a giggle on hers, she gestured toward his reading chair. "I think you'll find a way to complain about anything."

Erik merely sniffed indignantly, but did not verbally deny it.

She noticed then the legal pad he held within his hands, and as he settled himself in his chair, he handed it to her, the papers carefully flipped to reveal a page of her notes.

She hadn't seen this since he'd taunted her with it the first day, and she swallowed thickly as she stared at the little childish sketch of her castle.

"What are you saying?" she murmured quietly, her fingers drifting over the haphazard lines and indents.

"I am suggesting," Erik stated calmly, "that we fulfill that particular dream and leave behind this legal system entirely."

* * *

Sooo... a few of you were already on board for the whole...running away scenario, and look, even Erik's suggesting it! Think Christine will go for it? And who was ready for her to suggest getting married to circumvent testifying?

I had more time to write this week so I have a special offer for all of you! If you can get that review total up to 858, you shall immediately be rewarded with a new chapter! Otherwise, see you all next Saturday! (I do realize how whoorish this makes me seem...)


	37. Chapter 37

EEP! Apparently you all very much wanted another chapter! Thank you all for your reviews and enjoy your bonus chapter!

* * *

XXXVII

"Erik," Christine began, still too shocked by his suggestion to form any type of coherent argument. "I... I told you before, this was just a doodle! I never expected..."

To her surprise, Erik almost looked disappointed by her reproach, his eyes flicking briefly to the page. "The idea displeases you? Of running away with me? You would live in comfort," he was quick to assure her. "We would take your little furry fellow and all would be well."

Christine smiled at that, at his care and attention to what she valued most, and the thought was certainly... appealing. She had never had much opportunity to travel. Once settled in their new state, her parents had been too poor to think of making frequent trips back to Sweden, and then when it had just been papa and her...

They'd had other priorities. Like eating and small comforts.

"I don't need anything extravagant," she amended. "And a castle is certainly that."

Erik sniffed, waving a hand dismissively. "You deserve much, Christine, and I shall provide something worthy of your presence."

He was sweet, of course he was, but she still felt rather odd about the entire notion. "But you built this place," she reminded him gently. "Every detail is how you want it. I... it would be selfish to take you away from it all. Not when it took so much effort to construct it."

This time he gave her an incredulous look, and there was no doubting how inane he thought her comment to be. "It is but a hole in the ground with luxuries to make it bearable." Christine wanted to protest, to remind him of his grand music room, his clever kitchen with all of its hidden appliances, the warmth of his library. But there was a pain to his expression that she could not ignore, and she realized then...

Yes, he was safe here. But if the coffin in his bedroom was any indication, he had also fashioned it as his tomb.

And that was no place to build a life together. Not when she would have them fill it with happiness and sweetness, with laughter and music, if only she could find courage enough to allow it.

"If we were to try," she worded carefully, trying not to grow too excited at the prospect. Not until things were more certain. "How realistic is this? I have a passport but it could be expired by now, and I know there are things like visas, not to mention the hassle of trying to find a place..."

Erik was smirking at her.

"What?" she asked him peevishly. The point of this was to _share_, for him to reveal his plans to her, not make her muddle through with half-begun suggestions.

"I appreciate your attention to detail, Christine, but I can assure you, nothing you have mentioned will prove any sort of obstacle. I have lived in many countries with little recourse."

It surprised her that he had done so. She presumed he had been born here, but she supposed that with a mind like his, he could know a great many languages and abandon accents at will. She would like to hear of his travels, of the things he had seen and the people he had met, but she suspected that there would be sadness in those tellings as well, and she did so hate to see him pained.

"But would... would we get in trouble for it? I don't want to leave here only to get into more."

Erik sighed and shook his head. "You must trust me, Christine. I have been living this way most of my existence and have yet to be caught." She opened her mouth to argue, but he was swift to amend his statement. "When I did not wish to be, of course."

Christine smiled thinly. "Of course."

Erik allowed her to sit in silence for a moment, gathering her thoughts and trying to make sense of her trepidation. But eventually he leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled and his eyes narrowed as he regarded her. "I confess, I rather thought the notion would draw more enthusiasm from you, my dear."

Christine fiddled with the legal pad still clasped tightly in her hands, her fingers drifting over the words on the page. In reality, she had written them only recently, but they seemed as though they were from a different time.

A lifetime ago.

"We'd be criminals there too," she murmured. "Wherever we went. We'd be exchanging our crimes, but still..." She gave a little shrug, words failing her. "That doesn't bother you at all?"

It was a silly thing to say as clearly Erik did not hold himself to the ethical code of the land. He had fashioned his morality from his own experiences, with little thought to how such a mentality might prove disastrous if too many people took his approach.

"It bothers me if you are discomforted by the notion," Erik allowed. "But I fail to see how you would be considered so when you had yet to do anything wrong there."

She nibbled at her lip, not willing to speak of it fully, for she truly did not want to know. He'd asked her to trust him and she wanted to—how she wanted to!—but there was still the niggling awareness that whatever he did, he would not be embracing the new laws of their land.

And that worried her.

What if they were forced to flee again in future?

To keep running and hiding for the rest of their lives?

She didn't think she could live like that.

"If we were to go," she said at last. "I'd want us to be safe there. To do everything we could so that it would be our home for always. So no more police, no more troubles just... us. Getting to live."

Erik's eyes glittered, evidently pleased by her contingency. But still he hesitated, this time leaning slightly forward so he could look at her more fully. "What is it you fear that will happen, Christine? I would prefer you speak to me openly so that I might allay your fears, as you do tend to fret so."

She very nearly snorted at that, for between the two she firmly believed that Erik was the one prone to bouts of _fretting_, especially if it involved her in any way.

"I don't want to go through any of this again," she confessed, feeling the bite of tears at her eyes as she tried valiantly to keep them away. "I don't want to be scared, either for myself or because I might lose you over some technicality." _Or because you had really done something,_ she added silently.

Erik's lips thinned and he reached out a hand, bidding her to take it through his gaze alone. She did so, the reach not wholly comfortable as she could not move closer to him lest she disturb Boo's contented snoring, but she was glad of the contact all the same. "I shall give you a proper home, Christine," Erik promised. "I shall make you safe there, and you needn't fear recourse—either from this country or the one that we shall soon call our own. Do you understand?"

She had her doubts. Of course she did. There was no pretending that things could not take a terrible turn, that they could be discovered at an airport, both of them separated and charged with fleeing a criminal investigation, securing their own jail times regardless of a trial.

But...

Erik had asked her to trust him.

And how she wanted to.

For the life he described... one of comfort and of safety, where she was not alone trying to scratch out a bit of contentment in a world that left her feeling so terribly alone...

How she wanted it.

And badly.

"Do you think it could have a moat?" she enquired presently, feeling a lightness that had not been there before when she decided to embrace her Erik's promises and believe that he could fulfill them.

Erik smirked at her. "Shall it be filled with crocodiles and all sorts of nasty things to keep unwanted guests away?"

She glared at him, though there was little heat behind it. "Fish," she corrected. "So that Boo could watch them. He's probably terribly bored down here." It was a frequent worry of hers that he would be discontented, trapped just as she had felt in her early days with Erik.

But Erik simply gave her little fellow an incredulous look, likely noting the way he was so completely nestled against her thigh, his body pressed as fully as he could make it. "He looks positively miserable," Erik agreed, and if Christine was not certain the notion ridiculous, she rather thought there was a tinge of jealousy in his voice.

But that was absurd.

"When do you think we could leave?" she wondered, feeling a curious pang of sorrow at the prospect. It was not that she held a great deal of affection for this place, with all its strangeness and lack of windows. But it was here she had felt the first flutterings of love, had come to know her Erik and share some of their firsts and she... she would always think of it fondly for that.

"You agree to it then?" Erik confirmed. "I shall not force you to leave if you find it too distasteful. I... I want you to be happy, Christine. With me. And I shall do whatever I can to ensure that you are so."

How could she ever deny him when he spoke to her so sweetly?

"I want that for you too, Erik. And... and if leaving makes things easier—if we'll be safe and together and won't have to worry, then that's what we'll do."

He brightened considerably at that, though he forced himself to remain relaxed. "You are certain? I will not deny that our options are fairly limited if you should prefer we remain in the city, but I will find a way. For you."

Christine smiled giving his hand a final squeeze before releasing it entirely, her arm aching slightly from the angle. "I'm sure. It just... it doesn't seem like something people actually _do_. They might talk about running away, about staying in a castle and pretending the rest of the world does not exist but then they go back to work and take the bus and do the shopping and..." She shrugged. "Life goes on."

"Christine," Erik patiently reminded her. "We are currently housed underneath an opera house. I believe normality was forsaken long ago."

Christine plucked at her sleeve, wary but curious as she made her next enquiry. "Is that what you want? A bit of normalcy?"

Erik frowned ever so slightly, glancing away from her. "Is that such a terrible desire?"

"No!" she quickly assured him. "I just... you're brilliant, Erik. Anyone could see that just by talking to you. And this is a magnificent home, no matter how... painful things must have been for you to want to create it." She took a deep breath, gathering her courage to press on. "Are you really sure you're ready for the real world? People and airplanes and... well... what normal really means?"

Erik's eyes settled upon her, suddenly so very serious as he considered her question. "I am ready to... try. I do not think you were meant to be hidden away for the rest of your life and since... since I should very much like to be a part _of_ your life for the entirety of it, does that not mean that some changes must be made to our circumstances?"

It touched her that he had reached such conclusions without her prompting. Not since the beginning had she asked to leave here, had not even begun to broach the subject of relocation. And she counted it as a great encouragement that he realized it on his own.

"However," he continued, his tone rather anxious. "I am still not overly fond of _people_."

She hadn't meant to, but despite herself she chuckled, and he gave her a helpless smile in return. "I never would have known," she teased, causing his eyes to narrow ever so slightly as he began to sulk. "Now don't be cross, I'm only playing. And I'll have you know that I find people rather tiresome too."

Erik's eyebrow rose in question and Christine grinned. "You've clearly never worked in food service. Nothing makes you question people more than waiting on hungry customers and being yelled at for things that aren't your fault."

Erik sniffed disdainfully at that. "None of them appreciated you," he declared knowingly, and she shook her head.

"I liked my coworkers," she defended gently. "Travis was especially nice, and so was Ewan." Belatedly she recognized that she'd listed two men, and she rolled his eyes at his look of suspicion. "Don't you start. Travis played the piano beautifully and was always very complimentary about my voice, even when... even when singing only made me sad. And Ewan was the one that convinced the owner to let me work dinners even though I wasn't qualified." Erik snorted at that, and her ire rose. "You should be grateful to both because they made it so I had food on the table."

His expression softened at that, though she saw a tinge of pain in it as well. "You should never have been forced to worry about such things," he complained lowly.

Christine sighed and didn't know quite what to say. Why should she be different than all the other people who had to scrimp and save? She had worked hard and supported herself and she was proud of that. But if she thought of how things might have been different if her papa had lived, if she had been able to pool her money with his, coming home to warmth and laughter and brawny hugs...

No, it wasn't fair.

But life so rarely was.

And she saw no point in bemoaning that.

"I have you now," she stated simply. "And that's enough for me."

Her hand strayed over Boo's silky fur, and she silently amended that he too was a source of her contentment, but did not dare speak the words aloud given Erik's possible jealousy over her little friend. She had affection enough for the both of them, and with time, he would come to realize that.

Erik looked strangely humbled at her words, and to her great surprised he came and knelt before her, his hand seeking hers as he held it firmly between both of his own. Her breath hitched when he raised it to his lips, brushing a grateful kiss upon her knuckles as he did so. "I do not deserve you," he murmured.

How did he make her heart beat so very quickly?

How did a simple brush of his lips upon her skin affect her so?

And yet he asked if the possibility of _more_ repulsed her.

Her silly man.

"You shouldn't say such things," she urged him softly, finding words and argument suddenly very far away.

But Erik simply shook his head and smoothed his thumbs over her hand, looking at her intently.

Despite her being seated on the sofa and he kneeling on the floor, they were not so very different in heights as he stared at her, his eyes tender and sure.

And for one brief moment, she felt absolutely certain that he would ask her to be his wife.

The query never came.

And for some reason, she was disappointed.

"Erik," she finally prompted, not liking to see him kneel before when he was not in fact about to propose, "that isn't good for your knees."

She tugged at his hands but he remained steady, gentling her with another swipe of his thumbs. "Do you know," he mused, his eyes never straying from the delicate skin of her fingers. "I never thought I would know the feel of a woman's hands. Know how the taste of her lips lingered on mine. Know the warmth of her body pressed against mine."

Christine's cheeks burned at his words, as they made their times together sound far more scintillating than what they had been. But perhaps they had prompted such feelings from him all the same? She had not meant to be a tease, had only wanted to show him affection while she in turn began to remember what it was like when it was freely offered in return.

"You have given me that," he continued, his eyes flitting to meet hers. "If I had known what joy there was to be found... I would have abandoned that prison within an hour—would have come to you and courted you properly." He sighed then, suddenly despondent as he gave her a sad little smile. "But I would have frightened you and you still would have hated me at first."

An answer seemed very far away as she returned his stare, but she managed a choking sort of reply. "I never hated you," she disagreed.

Erik hummed low in his throat. "But you did not always love me."

Her brow furrowed. "Most people would say I loved you much quicker than is normal."

Erik grew very still, and she wanted to retract her words immediately. She hadn't meant that it was any less real, that she thought there was some outside force driving her to love him with a nefarious purpose.

"I loved you from the moment I saw your smile," Erik confessed helplessly. "Was that also so abnormal?"

"No," she choked out, shaking her head firmly. "When parents meet their child for the first time, they love it. They don't have to think about it or reason it through. They just... do."

Erik grimaced and she realized to whom she spoke, and she felt terribly wretched for it. "Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry." He shook her head in denial of her apologies, but she pressed on anyway. "You don't need me to tell you that you never had a real mother. One that would have loved and protected you above everything. Maybe the drugs kept her from loving, or maybe there was something else wrong with her, but whatever it was, the fault lay with her, not with you!"

Of that she was absolutely certain. Her Erik might have been born with an unfortunate appearance—although Christine was not wholly convinced that such had not come from his mother's lack of care while he was yet being knit in her womb—but that was no fault of his own. And no true mother would have punished him for it.

"Christine would never have been so cruel," Erik confirmed. "If she were to have a child that looked like me, she would... she would find a way to love it."

He looked at her with eyes so wide and open, that hint of a childish need as he sought her reassurance making her heart ache in places she didn't even know existed.

"I would," she promised, knowing that it was true.

Even as her breath grew a little shorter as she thought of the possibility.

Not of what a child would look like, but a child at all.

She had not given much thought to children—had not spent a great deal of time with little ones at all except for those which inhabited the group home waiting for placement just as she did. Most were damaged, would look at her with eyes so full of pain and betrayal that she had no choice but to look away, knowing that she would only frighten them with her own dead expression.

At the time, she'd no love to give.

But Erik had kindled it in her anew, and... she supposed... when the time came... and he'd asked her to marry him properly...

"What are you thinking about?" Erik asked her, and she swallowed thickly, sifting through her thoughts enough so she could find one she was willing to share.

"Do you think of a family often? A family with me?"

"Oh yes," Erik breathed, his eyes softening. "Only with you."

Unbidden, her mind drifted to how those children were _made_, and she nibbled at her lip fretfully, dread settling in her belly at what she was soon to ask. She did not mean to hurt him, to ask things that would only make his horrors return to the surface, but it would affect her soon enough—she shivered to think of it—and if he required doctoring or help that was not in her power to give...

"Erik," she started slowly, praying that he would not take offense. "I just... wanted to be sure. They say so many things about what prison is like..."

Erik stiffened, but he waited patiently for her to continue. "Yes, Christine?"

"Did... did anything... _happen_ while you were there?"

She did not want to say the words. Did not want to give voice to the terrible deed that filled her mind with worry, and at the flash of Erik's eyes, she knew that he caught her meaning without any additional clarification.

And yet she sincerely hoped that none of that anger was directed at her.

"You think Erik should allow such a thing to happen again?"

This time it was Christine who reached out her hands as Erik made to pull away, grasping and finding and soothing in their way. "I didn't say that," she was quick to assure him. "But when you first came to the courthouse you had so many bruises, and you even said that it didn't seem worth it to fight back."

He still seemed torn about whether or not he intended to flee from her, but eventually he sighed. "Why must you think of such things?" he pleaded with her for understanding.

How she hated that she had needed to ask. She should have trusted that he would take care of himself that... when the time came... he would take care of her.

"If... if we're _intimate_... someday, if we're starting that family that I think we both would like..." Erik's eyes widened at that. "I need to know that we're safe. That your memories will not be too fresh, that you weren't given any... thing during..."

"You think I would risk endangering you?" This time there was a definite incredulity to his voice.

"Not intentionally," she was quick to assure him. "But we're a team, aren't we? We're partners now even if you aren't my _boyfriend_," this she added just to tease him, to lighten what had become a terrible conversation—once again at her own prompting. "And I'd hope that I would help you think of things you might have overlooked."

Erik opened his mouth to protest, and she was fairly certain to retort that he never forgot anything, no matter the circumstances, but he must have seen her sincere desire to be helpful, for them to be happy and healthy in their future life, for he shut it again and gave a deep sigh instead. "I am quite well, I can assure you. I have been checked by many doctors, for more ailments than I think you could even name, and while hideous, nothing else at present seems to be damaged."

Christine nodded, feeling foolish for even having brought it up. She looked down at their entwined hands, wishing she could learn how better to mind her tongue, to keep from turning their delightful moments toward such serious topics that only hurt them both. What was wrong with her?

But Erik's finger tapped lightly under her chin, prompting her to look at him. "There was nothing pleasant about incarceration, Christine," he told her presently. "But the inmates and guards were far more interested in using their fists rather than their..." He stopped short of actually saying it, and Christine was grateful.

Not that he had been hurt. Never that. But her Erik had endured so very much, and she would spare him anything that she could.

"I'm sorry," she told him, hating how inadequate her apology was. "I shouldn't have said anything."

Erik grimaced. "You have my sincerest apologies that you should even have to question such matters."

On that at least, they could agree.

And simply to remind them of a brighter topic, of something that was beginning to fill her with the beginnings of a new excitement, Christine returned to a much safer subject.

One that alit Erik's eyes with anticipation.

"I suppose we should start packing for the move."

* * *

Sooo... Looks like they have a plan! And Christine really does know how to pick the awkward subjects, doesn't she? Thank you all again for your reviews, and if you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear from you all again!


	38. Chapter 38

I've been debating how to proceed with things, and since I have yet to come up with an actual... settled… decision, I'm just going to give you guys all the options and you can choose for yourselves! Because… waaaiiit for it… I finished this story! *happy dance* Yup, you read that right. I even got it up on Amazon (print and digital! Just search the title and _Catherine Miller_ and it'll pop up).

Sooo, what does that mean for updates? Well, for one, we are obviously winding down fairly quickly here (but don't worry, we're not fully at the end yet), but if you don't want to wait, you can just go purchase it all for yourselves. _Or, _if you'd rather stick around here, simply review! I'll be putting review totals at the bottom of each chapter and if that goal is met, you'll once again receive the chapter as soon as I can get online to post it! Otherwise I'll be sticking with Saturdays.

Anyway, about this chapter in particular, a special thank you to mine beta, _Honey Jenkins,_ because a certain _very _important scene would not behave itself and she was highly instrumental in getting it written at all.

Now, onward!

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XXXVIII

Erik blinked at her, evidently a little thrown by her sudden change in topic. "You are a very strange girl, Christine."

Her eyes narrowed, assessing him as he so often did to her. His tone was perfectly placid, so it was difficult to tell if he was ever so gently teasing her, or he was complaining about that strangeness. "Thank you?"

She did so want to be polite.

And when he chuckled at that, a real, true sound born from amusement and not dark revelations, something within her lost its hold and she felt immediately lighter than before.

"I am sorry though," she repeated, despite his assurances that an apology was not required. "I shouldn't drag things up or ask any question that pops into my head. Not when they..." She shrugged, not wanting to continue. While she was glad to have the knowledge that Erik had not been abused so while he awaited his trial, the question felt invasive and rude now that she considered it. She should allow him to guide the amount of information he provided her, even though her impatience and desire to _know_ him prompted her to hurry things along.

But that was wrong. And she would make every attempt to do better.

"That might be for the best," Erik confirmed, and she glanced up sharply, not fully expecting him to voice his agreement. But his eyes were affectionate as he regarded her, and she pouted as she stroked Boo's fur, disgruntled though he was by Erik crowding them. "Maybe then _you_ should start packing and I'll keep Boo occupied so he doesn't worry."

Erik shrugged. "Whatever pleases you."

And he called her strange, when he was perfectly content for her to lounge about while he did all the work.

A thought entered her mind then, unbidden and making nerves tickle at her belly as she decided how best to approach it. She would not make the same mistake of simply blurting it out, but it was perhaps unrealistic that she could abandon _all_ queries. That wouldn't do at all.

"Erik," she began softly, still smoothing her fingers through Boo's silken fur as she heard Erik move back to his chair, his knees obviously bidding him to do so, despite the plush nature of the carpets.

He hummed a little in acknowledgement, but did not prompt her further.

"Don't be cross," she pleaded gently. "You know I've been happy here and I'm not angry about anything anymore but..."

Erik eyed her shrewdly. "But?"

"My apartment. The rest of my things. Do you think... do you think I could go back and make sure I haven't left anything behind there? Something I'll need?"

Erik's lips thinned and she sincerely hoped that he understood. She'd been truthful when she'd said that all was forgiven, and she did not speak out of spite or to give him a reminder that she'd had a life outside of the one they now shared.

"You said that you did not require anything else," he reminded her, his tone rather odd. Hurt maybe? No, it was more accusing than that. As if she'd failed to tell him of something she'd needed or desired, and in his unending desire to _please_, he now felt as if she'd denied him.

It was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes. "You brought my mama's quilt, Erik, and that was the most important. I just want to be sure before we... before we leave and it all gets abandoned."

Erik stared at her quietly for a long moment before he sighed deeply. "I shall have to accompany you," he warned apologetically, as if it would offend her to have him near in her previous residence. "I cannot risk that the police will hear of your whereabouts and move quickly."

She hadn't thought of that, and was grateful for his forethought. "You can just tell me when," she assured him. "There's not great hurry. I'd just like to double-check before we leave, that's all."

Erik nodded. "Not an unreasonable request," he assured her when she continued to give him a doubtful look.

It was a few days before Erik would risk the trip there, and though Christine started feeling anxious to simply _move on_ with things, there was plenty to do that occupied her time. Erik assured her on numerous occasions that anything they did not take with them could easily be replaced—that only her favorite items and keepsakes needed to be packed away, but it seemed so terribly wasteful to leave behind an entire library, all the little things that were a reflection of Erik's tastes and preferences in a home.

But she was coming to realize that to take it all was simply impossible—not without the aid of professionals, and she somehow doubted that Erik would appreciate a sudden flood of movers taking over his home, whether or not they were about to forsake it.

Christine tried to ask about their travel plans, of any documents she might need to secure or foreign currency or the like, but Erik merely tutted at her. "It shall all be seen to, my dear," he'd told her more than once, and she'd flounce away in a huff and pack another of his books merely in protest.

She'd heard murmuring behind his bedroom door at times, and she presumed that Erik had a phone and was making arrangements, and she wished that he would just _tell_ her as the not knowing was maddening. But she'd let him have his fun as he truly did look terribly excited at the prospect of their move, and if he wanted to surprised her...

She _supposed_ it would not actually kill her.

Even if at times the suspense made it feel like it would.

But another thing was beginning to trouble her conscience even as she looked through her wardrobe, wondering which items to pick and what climate they were going to be embracing. Tropical places didn't have castles, did they? And she could hardly picture Erik in the light linens and breezy attire known in those warmer places, though the idea of him in a Hawaiian shirt did bring a smile to her lips.

Colder then, since it was winter. All her socks and boots and sweaters, and just her favorites of the summery things. She would trust Erik when he'd told her she could buy more when the time came, and she was growing more aware that she would have to limit the amount of suitcases to what they could manage themselves.

Perhaps she should remove a few of the books...

Her eyes strayed to the bed, and she worried at her lip even as she carefully folded a blouse and tucked it away in her suitcase. She'd forbidden Erik from going anywhere near that coffin, not when they'd had so many plans between them—there was no room for such morbidity now.

But that only left him with the option of the floor or her own bed, and while she'd assured him that it was big enough for two and he was certainly not imposing...

She felt odd about it. They had not done anything in the least unchaste, and in reality, he'd only been there a few hours each night when she was barely aware of his presence beyond the slightest of dips in the mattress. But the _knowing_ was enough and she wondered what her papa would say.

He'd be disappointed.

And there was no getting around that.

And now she was moving away with him, fully and freely moving _in_ with him, and...

Boo nudged at her hand before climbing into the suitcase, sitting there with mournful eyes as if she'd ever have any intention of leaving him.

"You're going too, you silly fellow!" she assured him, placing a kiss upon his fur before noticing a strange texture there. She leaned back so she could look properly, and she noted a black ribbon tied loosely about his neck, and a...

A ring dangling below.

She stared at it dumbly for a moment, her fingers inching forward to touch the delicate band, but Boo simply nudged at her with his nose and kept her from studying it properly.

Erik…

He couldn't possibly…

She looked up sharply and saw him leaning in the doorway of her bedroom, his arms folded casually as he watched her, his expression utterly passive.

"What is this?" she asked, not wanting to presume, yet her heart beat wildly at the prospect of what was to come.

"It appears to be a ring," he answered pleasantly, his voice holding not a hint of nervousness. She wished she had his confidence.

Yet even as she stared at him, she saw the tenseness of his shoulders, his posture carefully planned so as to make him appear as nonchalant as possible.

"A ring for... what?"

Erik hummed and took a step forward, and Christine felt Boo determinately pressing at her hand, urging her towards cuddles and attentions. Yet she could not tear her eyes from Erik as he came towards her, his eyes soft as he regarded her. "Christine," he began, his voice tender. "You love me, do you not?"

"Of course I do!" she said a little petulantly. "You must never doubt that." He could doubt a great many things from her, but her love… never that.

"And you have already agreed to accompany me."

"Yes, but Erik, I simply want to be certain I am not mistaking…" she worried her lip and stole a glance at the sparkling thing still tied to Boo's ribbon, "that is… that particular piece of jewelry… It is not just an ordinary gift. Unless you had meant it to be! If… if you just wanted me to have it for travelling and for us to look like we're… What I mean is…"

As she faltered and sputtered her way into trying to make him understand that he had to say the proper words—anything to ensure her that the gold band with the halo of sparkling diamonds was indeed selected for the sort of thing it _seemed_ to be made for—Erik released a longsuffering sigh and shook his head at her, but even as he did so his look was oh so loving, so tender and eager.

"There are many things about my person, my home, and the manner of our beginnings that are not in the least bit traditional, but I would not have thought it necessary to explain to you the significance of an _engagement_ ring," he said with a scoff, though a moment later his brow furrowing as if he struggled with some inner conflict. "Unless it is my posture that you find misleading."

Thus saying, he took to one knee and enfolded her hand into his, one thumb soothing over her knuckles as he was wont to do, whether to calm her nerves or his own at this moment, Christine couldn't tell.

Time seemed to slow, even as her mind reeled at what was about to happen, and rather incredulously she realized the absurdity of their positions.

They were not on a romantic date, with candles and a waiter lurking about with a bottle of champagne to toast their forthcoming union. He hadn't taken her to a garden where they'd picnicked and laughed until he'd surprised her with a ring.

They were simply in her bedroom, a suitcase by their side with Boo still holding the ring his hostage as he continued to blink at his keepers. But with Erik's hands so sweetly encapsulating hers, so steady and cool, his gloves forsaken, he showed not the slightest bit of hesitation or anxiety.

And it was perfect.

"There are no words I could practice or speeches I could invent that would convey everything I wish to say," he began as Christine's heart fluttered all the more with each line. "Yet even without such declarations, I think that you understand and can _see _how much I love you. Can you not, my Christine?"

She forced herself to nod, even as she tried to contain her tears, nothing quite feeling real even as he stared at her so fervently.

Erik smiled at her gently and he brought her hand to his lips for a brief kiss before continuing. "And if you are so agreeable, I wish to continue showing you every moment of every day how very thankful I am for you, and how every aspect of my life has become worthy of living again since I first saw you smile across that courtroom."

Christine swallowed thickly, tears beginning to prick at her eyes as she realized the magnitude of that statement. She'd changed him that day, no matter how some people might say that such things were impossible. She'd awoken some part of him that craved love and affection and… blessedly, he had seen that she was capable of both.

With him.

For the first time there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes at her continued silence, and he addressed her cautiously. "Will you give me your answer, dearest, loveliest Christine?"

Her heart was full to bursting with happiness, but still she could not resist teasing him, even as she met his gaze with a playful smile, even as her eyes felt rather misty. "But you have not asked me a question!"

Erik grunted as if a great inconvenience was placed upon him, but as he had admitted himself, she _understood_ him and she knew that he was not unhappy in the least when he gave her hand a firmer squeeze and asked her with a clear and unwavering tone, "Will you be my wife?"

Christine had always tried to maintain a careful distance between them—a small compensation for what decorum was lost due to their rather unique circumstances. There had been kisses—lovely, breathless kisses—and some of the tenderest and most enveloping embraces she had ever known, but she had tried to retain some semblance of boundaries between them. Her papa had raised a lady, and she knew her Erik to be nothing but the sweetest of gentlemen.

However, at the final pronouncement of his question Christine surprised even herself with a squeal that exceeded the shrillness of one or two famous sopranos, providing a most evident answer as she lunged into his arms and flung her own about his neck, laughing all the while.

Because it felt bright and real and she _loved _him.

And as her sudden unconcern for propriety meant that she peppered him with kisses until he stopped her with a deep and ravishing kiss in return, Christine found no room for fretting about being ladylike or Erik being overly shocked by her outburst.

Not when he kissed her with such abandon, obviously appreciative of her wild outburst all the same.

He had asked her.

He loved her.

And she would be his wife.

She had worried that when faced with the prospect, some part of her would hesitate, that she would know with certainty that it was all happening too soon, that they should wait and learn more about one another before entering such an important institution. And yet… when the words had been spoken and he had _asked _her…

Her heart had allowed no such indecision. No such doubt.

Not when he looked at her that way. Not when he spoke with such sincerity.

And isn't that what made a true proposal anyway? Not the setting or the carefully crafted asking, just tender emotions and a plea for the lady's hand by the man who loves her so completely.

And her Erik had given her that.

Eventually they broke away, and as she glanced down and caught her breath, she could not help but chuckle as Boo hunkered down in her suitcase, eyes wide and reproachful, evidently at both her giddy laughter and the subsequent kisses that had quite left him out of things.

But before she could soothe him, could assure him that this meant his minders would be married properly, Erik gently tugged at her hand until she looked up at him once more. "I would still have that answer from you, my dear," he murmured quietly.

Christine smirked. "That kiss was not answer enough?" She shouldn't tease, not about something so important, but she was just so _happy_ and he made her so and...

Erik gave a little shrug and allowed his thumb to drift over the corner of her mouth, his head tilted slightly to the side as he studied her. "That might have been your way of sweetening your rejection."

Christine really did roll her eyes at that, but sobered when she noted how serious he was being. For all his bravado, for the way he had addressed her with such confidence, she could not forget that he possessed the same shyness and lack of certainty as when they had first met. Perhaps he was growing in the knowledge of his welcome, that his kisses and touches—appropriate as they always had been—were treasured things. "You silly man," she answered fondly. "I would be... quite honored to become your wife. I do rather love you, you know," she reminded him, that teasing lilt not quite leaving her voice even as she tried to force herself to become more solemn.

And then he was smiling at her, truly and honestly as he marveled at her. "An incredible thing, to be sure."

She wouldn't argue with him. Not today. Not when he tugged her forward and simply held her, his arms surrounding her so completely and she felt so very safe and loved within his arms.

He held her so for a long while, until her knees protested their continued place along the floor, and her finger suddenly felt remarkably empty. So with great regret she pulled slightly away, giving him an apologetic glance as she did so. "I think I should like my ring now," she told him, and he brightened considerably at that.

"Of course." His fingers were nimble as he plucked at the bow securing the ribbon about Boo's neck, and Christine could not help but laugh as Boo's rumbling purr sounded loudly as soon as his fingers brushed against the scruff of his neck. And because he was her Erik, and he was the sweetest man she knew, he stopped to pet their little fellow, grumbling all the while.

"Did you really think I would say no?" she asked him quietly, a smile in her voice as she watched their little scene.

Erik hummed noncommittally, one hand straying to return to the ribbon while the other was occupied as it smoothed over Boo's silky little body.

"Perhaps. But I thought if I enlisted an ally it might make you a bit more agreeable."

Christine snorted inwardly as she was quite certain she would have accepted in whatever means he sought to ask her, but she had to admit, watching Boo as he peered at her with those too-large golden eyes, the very color reflecting the nature of the ring dangling from his neck...

Suddenly impatient, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Boo's head, undoing the ribbon and drawing the ring away, but not before Boo had managed to capture the tie for himself, ignoring Erik's continued ministrations as he sought to conquer his new opponent.

Little legs beat furiously against it as glimpses of a pink mouth opened to bite through the silk, and Christine chastised lightly even as her eyes never did quite leave the ring she now held in her hands. "Do be gentle with it, Boo. I shall want to keep that."

She had sat down fully upon the floor and she ran her finger along the tiny diamonds that surrounded a much larger one, belatedly noticing the delicate scrollwork in the gold of the band.

"Does it meet with your approval?" Erik queried.

"Oh yes," she breathed, suddenly brushing away a tear. "Will you put it on me?" Perhaps that was supposed to wait for their wedding day, for the exchange of vows as a minister pronounced them man and wife, but for now...

Now it felt important.

Erik took the ring from her and smoothed it easily onto her ring finger, and such a sense of _rightness_ filled her that she had to work to hold back the hiccoughing sob that threatened to be released.

"Christine? Are you well?"

She laughed yet again, a little brokenly, a little harshly, and she kissed him again—her sweet, perfect Erik.

For the ring fit perfectly—not a small feat for her slender fingers. "You assessed me, didn't you?" she asked when next she pulled away, her eyes overly bright and her smile wide.

Erik's own held amusement and perhaps he was just a bit sheepish as he confirmed it. "I would not want you to be without it. Not that you must wear it at all times," he was quick to assure her. "I will not be offended if you should not wish to…"

Christine placed her forefinger upon his lips, and though he looked at her rather bemusedly, she was far too happy to offer any apologies.

"I think it's right where it belongs. And _I _am right where I belong."

He reached for her hand then that held his lips still and placed a kiss upon her palm. "With me?" he asked her so quietly that she wondered if she was not meant to hear.

"With you," she confirmed. "Always with you."

* * *

Sooo… looks like our lovely couple is engaged! What'd you think of Erik's proposal? Special thank you to _Jegsy Scarr _for her suggestion of including Boo oh so many chapters ago… nothing manipulates the emotions like a little one blinking up at you!


	39. Chapter 39

I _loved _your enthusiasm last chapter! Some mentioned they were surprised that it happened so quickly, but so far I've received no complaints at them being engaged (I don't think Erik would care to heed such warnings in any case!). I hope it stays that way! Now, let's see if we can get them moving on...

Onward!

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XXXIX

Packing suddenly held little interest for Christine—not when she could sit on the sofa with her Erik and admire her ring, occasionally sharing sweet kisses with her _fiancé_. It still felt a bit strange how things had transpired, but no longer did she feel the niggling guilt that she somehow was indulging a madman. It all felt too right, her happiness too genuine for her to doubt, and she would rather simply enjoy the living without fretting about what people might think of her choices.

"It suits you well," Erik told her, his voice a little smug.

She could not muster even the slightest reproach, instead smiling and watching the sparkles as she moved her hand ever so slightly. "You suit me well, and so you were able to pick well."

Erik sniffed but she could see how pleased he was at her assessment, leaning down and kissing her temple in approval.

They were a bit more timid when they had gone to bed that night, a bit more reserved now that there was a future of _more_. Erik remained above the blankets, and while she normally would have persuaded him that such was unnecessary, today she did not argue. Not when her emotions were so very raw and she feared that with the slightest touch she might...

Boo's clamoring onto the bed disturbed her thoughts and he very pointedly insinuated himself between them both as he nestled amongst the pillows, curling up promptly and resting his nose against his tightly wrapped tail, breathy purrs relating his pleasure. Erik stared at him incredulously, but Christine could only giggle, pressing a kiss upon the top of Boo's head, feeling a bit better that temptation would not best her—not when Boo was ever watchful and so very jealous of her affections.

"I hope you will not consider this appropriate behavior once we are wed," Erik warned her.

And she merely smiled at him, and whispered, "Good night," before turning out the light at her bedside.

"That is not an answer," he reminded her, frustration evident in his voice.

So it was with a smile on her lips and a ring on her finger that she slept.

And in the morning, Erik announced that once her clothing was situated and they had returned to her apartment, it was time they vacate his home.

"Onwards to better things, my dear," he assured her when a sudden melancholy overcame her.

"I know," she replied, nodding as she used the last of the milk on her cereal, the refrigerator already carefully emptied. "I just didn't realize how much I would miss it."

Erik cocked his head to the side, watching her across the table. "Why should you miss this place? Surely it feels more a prison than a home to you."

Christine rolled her eyes, though she supposed some part of her might agree with him. She would like a place where she could go outside at a whim. Where there were other people to talk to and befriend should she so choose. But every bit of this house was a reflection of Erik, with its perfect blend of old fashioned charm and modern convenience, and she was loathe to lose such a physical representation of his character.

But perhaps...

Perhaps now that they were to be married, it was important that they find something that was to be _theirs_.

"Are you certain you would still like to return to your apartment?" He said this with a note of distaste, and she sighed, skimming the last from the milky depths.

"Yes." Christine assured him. "I need to be sure I have everything important."

Erik nodded, and she drank the remaining milk, not caring if he thought it a little undignified. But his eyes were warm and affectionate as he watched her, and she blushed only a little when she pulled the bowl away.

Changed and dressed for the day, her boots already on and her coat carefully laid out for the cold weather to come, Christine packed away the last of her favorite clothes, then smoothed her mother's quilt overtop it all. The suitcase protested the additional invasion, but she was most certainly not about to trust it in anything else. The zipper conquered, she took a moment to remake the bed, idly wishing she had time to put on fresh linens, but she felt Erik's presence in the doorway, reminding her that it was time to depart.

And for a brief moment, she simply wanted to cry and ask him not to make them leave.

He came up behind her and wrapped his long arms about her, his chin coming to rest on the top of her head. "It will be beautiful," he murmured softly in her ear. "Green everywhere, and crisp breezes, and skies that seem to go on forever. Do you not miss the open air, my Christine?"

"Yes," she whispered with a shiver at his proximity.

He gave her middle a careful squeeze. "Then allow me to restore it to you. Preferably with as few tears as you can manage."

She released a choked sort of laugh, his teases unexpected but welcome as he released her with a kiss, taking the handle of her suitcase and taking it out toward the front door.

"Oh, Boo!"

She kicked herself for not considering how he might travel. She hadn't the least idea of how Erik had even brought him down here. A box? Or did they make special carriers?

Evidently they did for she caught sight of a black mesh enclosure, large enough for him to grow, but small enough that it could be carried easily. Boo blinked at her drowsily, almost unseeingly before he laid down his head and closed his eyes. Christine's brow furrowed.

"Is he okay?"

Erik peered down at their kitten. "Perfectly well. Better that he sleeps than stresses himself over things he cannot understand."

"You... you drugged him?" Her heart raced at the thought, a cold feeling spreading through her limbs.

Erik's eyes narrowed as he handed her coat to her. "A common practice, I can assure you. Cats are not typically welcome to the concept of airplane travel, and I doubt your little fellow is any exception."

She still gave Boo a dubious look, and Erik continued, releasing only the smallest of sighs. "I did not poison your companion, Christine. I merely spared him a terrifying experience. Surely that is not so very terrible?"

Christine took a steadying breath before nodding. "Of course. I'm sorry, I just... I didn't know that's what people did. And I'm a little ashamed of myself for not even thinking about it before."

Erik stared at her a moment longer before he stepped forward, taking her left hand in his, his thumb gliding over her ring as he held it up for her inspection. "I would like this to mean that you trust me not to hurt you. And hurting something you love would cause you pain, so therefore…"

He looked at her expectantly and she swallowed, that same shame growing as she recognized how little faith she had put in him.

The man she had agreed to marry.

"That you never would."

Erik nodded. "Precisely." He sighed, a deep and saddened sound that tugged at her heart and fueled the guilt all the more. "Please, do not think so little of me, Christine. Not now."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, feeling thoroughly chastened as he pressed a kiss upon her fingers before helping her into her coat.

"Ready?"

Christine was glad of his hand, steady and sure within her own as she took one last look about his home. It seemed desolate already, too still and empty even though so many possessions would be left behind. Erik had been taking trips above all morning with cases of his own, but still there was the furniture, the rugs, the intricate lamps that when lit made it all so cozy.

And they were abandoning it all.

For the hope of a better life.

Together.

"Yes," she murmured, hoping that it was not in fact a lie, following obediently as Erik took Boo's carrier and her suitcase and led her once more to the world beyond.

Christine hesitated when Erik made to open the door to the music room, filled with sudden trepidation that a host of police would be waiting on the other side, her hand clutching at his arm to keep him from continuing.

He sighed deeply and produced a slim, black phone from his pocket, the screen revealing video of the interior of the room beyond—equally empty to the house they had left behind. "I was careless before, something that I shall not be again. We are safe, Christine."

Eventually, after a moment of watching and waiting for any sign of concealment, she relented, and they passed through the room that so clearly had meant so very much to her Erik during his time below the theatre. To her relief, many of the compositions that had once littered every surface were now gone, and when her eyes landed on the empty corner where his violin had once resided, she was even more so.

For the first time there was a touch of wistfulness to Erik's tone as he glanced about the room, urging her from the space before she could ask him what troubled him.

Another dark SUV waited for them at the curb, this time the back seat filled with luggage instead of Erik's defendants—although Christine still found herself peeking often to ensure that nothing else accompanied them.

"Is something amiss?" he finally asked her, his tone one of amusement even as his eyes never left the road before them.

Christine blushed and faced forward once more, settling Boo's carrier more firmly on her lap. Erik had insisted that he would be perfectly happy on the seat behind her, but it felt wrong to leave him so alone when in a car for the very first time, and probably feeling muddled and strange with the drugs in his system.

"No," she assured him quickly. "Just… thinking about last time we were in a car like this. Things are so different now."

Erik hummed and turned onto a familiar street, the buildings suddenly shabbier and the mood much more somber. Had she truly lived here all alone? It was still fairly early in the evening, but the days had grown short and the sun had long since set when they pulled up to her apartment.

She glanced down at her lap when he parked the car against the curb, uncertain what to do with Boo. She did not intend to be in her apartment long, and now as she regarded the street that had once been so very familiar to her, it all seemed so very dangerous...

He could simply continue to sleep in his carrier, but near to her, even if he didn't like the slight jostling that came with actually being carried. "My dear," Erik said, first taking Boo and then holding out his unburdened hand to help Christine from the vehicle. She still had to make an awkward hop down, but she managed well enough with his assistance. "You will stay close," he cautioned softly before he locked the car and he led them onward.

She knew a moment's panic when she realized that her key was no longer in her possession, but Erik swiftly undid the lock, whether by pilfering her belongings or through some nefarious skill of his own, she did not catch.

Erik had donned a mask before their departure, this one less grim than some of his other options. It was still jarring to no longer be able to see his face or so easily tell of his expressions, but Christine supposed it made him more comfortable when around other people, and she did so want to make all this easier for him.

Sounds of violent television programs and disgruntled children filtered through the closed doors of the other apartments as Erik and Christine steadily made their way to her apartment, and she noted again how dingy everything appeared. The soiled carpet, the walls in dire need of fresh paint, half the lights in the hallway in need of changing lending a depressing tone with the few remaining fluorescents.

Was it any wonder that Erik had feared for her safety? That he had sought to help her? Even if his particular version of _help_ was so far beyond the norm.

She was glad when none of her neighbors peeked out at them as Erik escorted her through the doorway to her own apartment, uncertain of what she would say should anyone ask after her absence. They were starting new, where no one would know them, no one would question how she had come to be with him other than the rudimentary enquiries that accompanied all relationships.

And she looked forward to that. To proudly introducing her Erik to those she met, telling people of how he loved and cared for her. The issue of the kidnapping was between them and would most certainly remain so—a mistake on his part that she would not allow to taint everything that followed.

And as she took in her little studio apartment, dust beginning to settle on what once had been tidy surfaces, she finally began to see what Erik had when he had looked at her.

A girl struggling on her own, too despondent and grief-stricken to try to form a better life for herself. A neighborhood notorious for its drugs and crimes, but cheap enough to allow her the benefit of living alone. And he had admired her, in his way, and thought that he could give her a better life. And that perhaps she might love him for it.

"Christine? Did you not wish to look about?"

"Sorry," she answered almost dazedly, pulling herself from her thoughts as she released his hand and set about opening drawers in search of any forgotten keepsakes. Her clothes were all there, well-worn and some threadbare, already used when she'd bought them. She'd always tried to ensure she looked presentable, her papa having stressed the importance of doing so from an early age. But when she compared these garments to the ones Erik had given her, the thought of taking them with her seemed almost laughable. Her Erik showered her in luxury, and while she was pleased with herself for having scratched out any type of life on her own, she could not say she took any great pride in it. Not when she could have done more if she had seen any purpose in it.

It wasn't until she reached the bottom drawer of her dresser and her hands brushed against a metal tin that her breath caught, immeasurably grateful that she had insisted they return here.

She opened the lid with trembling fingers, inside all of the picture of her papa and mama, looking so very happy in their newly wedded bliss. There were a few of her as a baby with her mother, but most centered around her and her papa, with warm hugs and Christine's smiling face as she was presented with a cupcake on her birthday, a lone candle perched in the middle so she could still usher in the new year with a wish.

And buried beneath it all, lay her parents' wedding bands. Her father's a plain gold, while her mother's was engraved with leaves and vines about the entirety of the band.

Her heart ached just to look at them.

How could she have forgotten them? She'd remembered to ask Erik for her mama's quilt, but these? Her entire life with her parents tucked away in a little tin, safe and cherished yet hidden all the same.

Except… perhaps she had not quite forgotten. She had known it was important to return here, to make sure she did not leave something behind. Yet like it had always been, she held these memories slightly aloft, the pain too near, too all-encompassing to allow her to visit them at will.

Her fingers stroked over her papa's wedding band, so easily picturing it upon his hand. Every day he wore it. It did not matter that his love was gone, that she had perished so soon into their marriage. He was bound to her, to her memory, and not once had he removed it.

Until a mortician had done so and sent it back to her along with his other possessions.

She felt Erik's looming presence above her, and she glanced upward, his eyes showing his concern even as his attention flickered to the photographs, his interest plain.

She would share them with him, of course she would. She would let him see these pieces of her life, a glimpse of what it meant to be loved and treasured as a child—so completely opposite to everything he had experienced himself. But not here. Not now. For here she had known what it was to be alone, to weep into her pillow and to ache so terribly at the loneliness that consumed her, and even with his comforting presence behind her, she still felt that familiar pang.

And she would have them be free of it.

Christine closed the tin hurriedly and handed it to Erik for him to keep safe while she made a half-hearted search through the rest of the drawers and cupboards of her apartment. She found her expired passport and showed it to him worriedly, but Erik merely smiled and shook his head. "You have no need of it," he promised her, but she tucked it into her pocket anyway, also not wanting anyone else to have it.

And when she had looked all she could, she took Boo's carrier from the floor where Erik had left him and held it close, her throat tight with emotion and her eyes already misting. "We can go now."

Erik came to her hesitantly, his gaze searching as he tentatively put his arm around her shoulders—unsure of his welcome. She leaned her head against his chest wearily, her feelings at returning here unexpected. "Take me home, Erik. I just want to be home."

Except, they did not have a home now, did they? They were wanderers, fugitives, and she was so very tired of it all.

"Home," Erik repeated slowly as he led her from the room, closing the door behind him. "You shall have a very nice one now. One with rooms and music," this he said most firmly and she could not help but smile softly at his insistence. Not when he had tried to beguile her so unsuccessfully in the past, "and... and love?"

A sob threatened to escape at his question, for there was no denying that he was uncertain of her response. Even with his ring upon her finger, even after their shared kisses and her promises of marriage, still he wondered. And she realized now why he was so very concerned about bringing her here—that the memories of independence, of a life before him, would prove too tantalizing, and she would choose to forget him.

No matter how utterly impossible such a thing could be in reality.

"Silly Erik," she choked out, ready to be free of this building, of this life. "There will be so much love there, for we will be married."

He hummed contentedly at that, and she could not help but tease.

"And because Boo will be there."

At that he offered an indignant sniff and her smile grew. He led her across the street and helped her into the car, and as he joined her and they drove away, she felt only the smallest twinge of sadness of what she left behind.

But more than that, she longed to know where their new home was to be. Their home together.

It felt strange to leave the city, so long had she dwelt there. There was little to beckon her beyond it, her life with her papa contained to its confines and the stretch of her pocketbook making it plain that it was far better to keep to the areas where she knew the costs and could budget accordingly. But now they were leaving it, Erik's hand coming to find hers when he noticed her silent tears, and she held it gratefully until she found her composure, the city lights fading as they entered the freeway.

They drove for what seemed a very long time before Erik finally turned into a darkened field, pasture lands and fences surrounding them with many warnings against trespassers. Even the sight of horses and cows wandering about did nothing to calm her nerves, so unfamiliar was the entire landscape.

"Erik?"

He patted her hand gently and made a final turn, an airplane coming into view.

An airplane?

This was clearly not an airport, no sign of others and bustling lines and metal detectors and crowded waiting rooms—at least, that's what she had always been told constituted such a place. Instead, Erik parked the car and a man simply appeared to help with the luggage, Christine having opened her door but too nervous to actually descend until Erik could give his full attention.

Even Boo managed to lift his head and peer about, not enough to panic but enough to question the loud noise as the engines came to life, more men walking about and checking last minute things as their bags were suddenly taken to be stored in their proper compartments.

Erik came then, and noting her worry, he leaned close and kissed her forehead before he took her hands in his. "Your carriage awaits, my dear." She offered him a timid smile and allowed him to draw her from the car—was it too going to be abandoned?—before he drew her close and escorted her toward the plane. "It will all be well, my Christine. You shall see."

And as she ascended the steps toward her new life, she certainly hoped it to be true.

* * *

Sooo... no TSA for them! As if Erik was ever going to submit to another pat down. And it's a good thing Christine asked to go back to her apartment... they might need some of those tin contents at some point...

Who's ready to finally find out where they're going?!


	40. Chapter 40

Lots of impatient people wanting to know where they're headed! Can't say I blame you... or that Christine isn't anxious to know too! Current vote is for Sweden... Who's ready to see?

Onward!

* * *

XL

Christine had never been on a plane before, but she doubted that even if she had, it still would not have been anything like this. The design was rather open, with upright seats and sofas alike, even a banquette table for having meals instead of the little trays that she'd overheard people complain about.

She'd frozen somewhat upon entering but Erik urged her forward, ushering her toward the longer bank of seats, presumably so he could sit beside her. Numbly, she obeyed him as she sat and allowed him to buckle her seatbelt, but her hands became rigid when he tried to take Boo from her.

"Hush now, Christine, but he cannot stay on your lap. He should not jostle about, now should he?"

She shook her head, agreeing, but still unmoving.

Erik sighed.

"Christine," he stated again, more firmly. "I am going to put him on this seat beside me and buckle his carrier. That way if there's any turbulence he will remain right where he is. Do you understand?"

With great reluctance she allowed him to do as he said, already missing the comforting presence of Boo on her lap as she faced this terribly new experience—with far less grace and trust than she had hoped, she noted with a grimace.

Wordlessly, Erik produced a little white pill and held it out to her.

"W-what is that?" she asked, her mouth suddenly feeling quite dry.

"It shall help you to relax and to sleep. It is quite a long flight and I would highly suggest you take it."

Christine stared at the pill, feeling quite strange as she did so. Was this truly a choice on her part, or was he merely humoring her with the asking? He'd shown no qualms about drugging her before, and she shuddered at the memory even now—even as she loved him. "If I don't, will you make me?" she queried, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Erik flinched, and concealed the pill as his fingers curled into a fist. "Of course not; I think only of your comfort."

Christine bit her lip, considering, before she nodded, taking it from him once he had relaxed his hand yet again. "May I have some water?"

He placed a kiss upon her temple before rising from his seat, his gratitude evident that she had decided to place her faith in him. "Certainly."

He went to a small bank of cabinets toward the front of the plane, pulling out a deceptively deep drawer that was well stocked with bottles of water and sodas. The engines suddenly grew louder and more insistent, and he hurried back to her side, buckling his own belt before handing her the bottle of water. "My dear," he offered with a small smile, and as her nerves increased, she was more grateful for his forethought in providing her some chemical assistance.

She was excited at the prospect of newness, but now that she was _here_... was buckled in for the journey, no knowledge of where they were headed or when they might return to the city she had known as home for so very long...

There was no denying she was frightened.

And as she swallowed the pill, she would be grateful for any courage it would provide, even if only in the form of unconsciousness.

"No flight attendant?" she asked, still finding this flight particularly strange and not anything like she'd heard described before.

Erik sniffed and waved his hand dismissively. "There is one somewhere. But no where they can prove a bother."

Christine's brow furrowed, but she asked no more of him as he drew her close so she could rest against his shoulder as a voice filtered through the cabin, informing them of their departure.

"We will be free," Erik reminded her when the plane slowly began to taxi, turning and preparing for takeoff, Christine's heart racing at the prospect.

And she was glad of his closeness when the plane lurched forward, propelling them upwards as the belt dug into her hips Erik's arm holding her steady as they climbed ever upwards, her ears protesting the ascent and her stomach clenched with worry...

Until suddenly she felt as if she was floating, her limbs heavy and her eyelids equally so, the little pill evidently working far more quickly than she would have expected. "Sleep, Christine," Erik murmured in her ear. "I shall wake you in the morning."

-X-

Christine was groggy and disoriented when next she woke, sitting up slowly as she tried to recall where she was. Her head had been resting upon a pillow, but she noted with a blush, it was also positioned in Erik's lap, the rest of her curled to the side as she lay across the bank of chairs that formed a sofa. Boo was sleeping contentedly to the other side of Erik, and she blinked at him, hoping yet again that he would be okay after his sedation.

But then... she supposed _she_ had been thoroughly sedated to have slept so long.

"Good morning, my dear!" Erik told her cheerfully. "You would think I allowed you no sleep at home for you rested much longer than I anticipated."

Christine blushed, sitting up fully and waiting for her head to clear so she could answer properly. Everything felt a little muzzy, like she had slept a little _too_ long and her mind tried to remember what it was like to function again. "It hardly feels like we're moving," Christine mused as she looked about the cabin, wondering how long they had been flying—and where possibly they could have gone in such a time.

"Ah," Erik answered, setting aside his book and looked a bit sheepish. "I am afraid you have missed our landing, Christine. We arrived twenty minutes past."

Christine stared at him, trying to make sense of it all. "I missed... I missed everything?"

He gave her an apologetic glance. "I'm afraid so." He reached for her hand, his thumb whispering soothing circles upon her palm. "But if you should like to be awake for our next adventure, I am certain I can decide on some sort of diversion."

Christine shook her head, desperately wanting a cup of tea to help drive away the last of her muzziness, but also feeling rather cramped. The plane might have been luxurious, but it was still no substitute for a proper bed. "What are we waiting for then?"

But at Erik's pointed glance, she had her answer.

"It was no trouble," Erik was quick to assure her when he noticed her surely guilty expression. "They are all being paid handsomely and we made good time on the flight over."

"Over... where?" she prompted, but Erik merely touched her nose playfully and tsked at her.

"Soon," he promised. "Now, should you like to use the facilities before we depart?"

Christine stretched and nodded, not relishing that particular airplane experience but thought it prudent since she had no idea how far their new home might be from the airport.

The bathroom was nothing like she expected—perhaps a little tight, but not like stepping into a cupboard as she feared, and it was remarkably clean. She even found a sealed toothbrush and paste waiting for her on the counter, which she gladly made use of—anything to make her awaken further from her still dreamy state.

Her stomach was growling when they exited, and she noted that Erik had released Boo's carrier from the seat, readying to depart whenever she was. "Did he sleep the whole time?"

Erik looked down at their furry fellow with some amusement. "No. He preferred to do a little exploring."

For the first time, Christine was genuinely sorry she had been asleep for the entirety of their journey, as she would have enjoyed watching Boo teeter about as he explored his temporary surroundings.

But, she comforted herself, soon enough she would see him investigate every new corner of their new home, just as she would.

"Breakfast, my dear?" Erik offered when her stomach protested her long sleep yet again.

The cabin door was already open and as she squinted out into the daylight, she worried that she had missed breakfast entirely and lunch would have been far more appropriate. "How long did I sleep?" she asked guiltily, Erik taking her hand as he helped her down the steps to the tarmac below.

"You forget the time difference, Christine. It is not so late as all that back home."

Christine gave him a thin smile. This was to be their home, yet she didn't have any idea where they might be.

It still didn't look like a traditional airport, and it was not dissimilar to where they had departed from. There was no snow clinging to the ground, the grasses a vibrant green as they surrounded the bits of industry that had dared trespass on their landscape.

A dark vehicle awaited them, and Erik escorted her towards it, and she couldn't help but tease as they approached. "Just how many of these SUVs do you have? I'm starting to think you have an entire fleet squirreled away places."

Erik's eyes grew unreasonably pleased at that. "Perhaps."

Her mouth dropped open because that simply could not possibly be true, but he was opening the door to the backseat and ushering her inside, allowing her to take Boo upon her lap before he walked to the opposite side.

She was startled that a man was already within the car, smiling at her kindly from his position in the front.

There was something wrong about the configuration, and she blamed the residual effects of that little white pill for it taking her so very long to work out that the steering wheel was on the opposite side than was usual.

She peered behind her and saw their belongings, and when Erik settled in beside her and bade the driver take them home, she felt a little bit better.

Even though she still had no idea where they were.

"Erik," she whispered, not wanting the man to overhear her ignorance. "Shouldn't we have gone through customs? Or... something?"

She hadn't the least idea of procedure with this sort of thing, but she'd heard her papa talk about the difficulties of immigration and she was certain you couldn't simply land a plane and depart based on whimsy. Unless... did one declare the intention and secure permission when issued a flight plan? She supposed that didn't sound _too_ unreasonable...

Erik patted her hand and digging into his pocket produced a trim passport for her perusal. "I believe you have a stamp already, my dear."

She flipped it open with care to the front page, not recognizing the photo staring back at her, yet thinking for such sterile identification, it was rather a good one. Her brow furrowed when she realized the name was not her own. "Erik," she prompted slowly. "Why does it say my last name is Haden?"

Erik picked a bit of lint from his suit jacket, avoiding her gaze. "It seemed ridiculous to fashion two sets of documents when you will forsake your maiden name before long." His eyes flashed to hers briefly. "Are you displeased?"

Her mouth grew dry and her fingers ran over the lettering, feeling strange at the sudden reminder that she had not known Erik's full name before now. "Does yours match?"

He inclined his head ever so slightly. "It does."

Quite unbidden, she found herself smiling as she rested her head against his arm, liking the thought very much.

"But Christine," he continued, hesitantly. "In an attempt at... honesty, you should know that this was not the name of my progenitors. I have had many names throughout the years, and I selected one that I thought would suit our life here. A life with you."

She considered that, wondering if she was disappointed by his revelation. Eventually she would ask to know more of him, his past, the little details that made knowing a person so very intimate. She would hear of his travels, his experiences, and would soothe whatever plagued him as best she could.

But as he looked at her so worriedly, as if he had somehow wronged her by not giving her the name of the woman who had hurt him so, she only found the gesture oddly endearing. They would not be like normal couples where she was brought into his family heritage through their marriage. Instead, they would begin anew, just the two of them.

Until someday, maybe, they grew to three.

"I'm not cross, Erik," she assured him quietly, her eyes flitting to their driver as they continued toward their new home, the scenery about them so unlike anything she had seen before.

She wanted to see more of it, to appreciate the dots of white in the distance—sheep, she rather thought—but before she did so, she flipped through the little book still in her hands until she found her stamp, slightly askew and curiously not on the first available page, but somewhere in the middle.

Christine wondered if Erik had insisted that his inhabit the first box upon the first page. It seemed like something his finicky nature would require.

She had to squint a little to make out the words, but eventually she managed, looking to Erik for confirmation. "Ireland?"

"The Republic of Ireland," he corrected. "The southern portion."

She peered outside the car with renewed interest, never having thought she would make it to such a place. Perhaps someday she would ask Erik to take her to Sweden, to see where her parents had come from and renew their stories in her mind, somewhat afraid that without doing so she would begin to forget them.

But for now, she was happy to begin the exploration of their new home.

They drove for a while longer, some of the roads twisty and she had to study the road ahead to keep her stomach from twisting. Erik rubbed her arm and promised they would be there soon once he noted her discomfort, and she was glad she had not eaten any breakfast.

They passed through villages and towns, and each time she grew hopeful that they would stop soon, but they continued onward, until finally they drove past the sea. There were no beaches that she could see, the hillside sharply declining to the waters below, and she knew with absolute certainty she would be far too frightened to ever draw too close to those particular edges.

But when Erik drew her attention back to the front, she saw it—overlooking a great expanse of water and glens beyond, was a castle.

That could not possibly be theirs.

It was not _quite_ as large as she had feared, but there were turrets and the stone was grey and ancient, and she grew suddenly nervous at the thought of living there. It was too grand a place, too cold. She should have asked him for a cottage somewhere, not... not _this_.

But the driver took them over a little bridge, and with a laugh she realized that it did indeed have a modest moat surrounding the dwelling, an odd thing given its location beside the water.

But she knew so little of architecture so she would not argue with its being there.

"Do you like it?"

Christine held Boo a bit closer, her heart pounding as they drew closer to their new home. "I... I don't know yet."

It was the wrong thing to say, of course it was, and she noted Erik's frown as the driver pulled up to the main doors, exiting quickly so he could tend to the luggage. She would have thought that Erik would have immediately followed to oversee the process, but instead he placed his finger beneath her chin, turning her away from the impressive structure before them. "I would take you anywhere, Christine. If you find this insufficient, we may go anywhere you wish." His thumb drifted across her cheekbone and she shivered. "I want only for your happiness."

Christine swallowed thickly and gave a timid smile. "I want you to be happy too. And I'm sorry. Really. I'm just hungry and overwhelmed I guess."

Erik clicked his tongue in disapproval, opening his door and coming around to her side to help her out. She wouldn't relinquish Boo even when he offered, and she noted with some comfort that their kitten's ears had perked considerably as he peered into the unexplored world beyond.

"Just leave the cases there and I shall deal with them," Erik instructed brusquely. "My lady requires breakfast."

The man put his fingers to his cap and gave a little salute, pulling down the last suitcase before his brow furrowed. "Wha's this?"

He reached in again and pulled out her tin of memories, and Christine's heart gave a lurch at the sight of it. Her hands full of Boo she could not take it, and she turned beseeching eyes to Erik. "Could you bring it, please? I don't want to leave it out here."

She knew she was being silly to feel so nervous and unsure about a new place that should have only filled her with excitement at the prospect of what was to come, and perhaps she would if given a little time. When Boo started to settle and Erik gave her a tour, and her heart would stop beating so furiously with nerves...

Erik pulled out a few strange bills and passed them to the driver, taking the tin from him before returning to her side. The man looked surprised yet pleased at the amount in his palm, and he gave another nod before restarting the car and departing, the graveled drive shifting beneath the tires.

"There now, all alone again," Erik assured her, drawing her close.

And for reasons she could not fully explain, she did feel better for it. And knew that was very, very wrong.

She had never had many close friends. She'd had her papa and his stories and enough acquaintances to stave off any loneliness. When he'd died it had hurt too much to draw close to anyone, so she simply... hadn't. And while Erik had convinced her otherwise, that didn't mean it was right for her to shun everyone else that did not have the great fortune of being _him_.

Maybe after their honeymoon, assuming such a thing should be soon, she would find the closest village and try to meet people. They would have to do the shopping now unless Erik once again decided simply to spirit foodstuffs into their home unawares, but she would like to be friendly—would like to know more of the people and their customs.

"I believe our tour shall begin with the kitchen," Erik declared, drawing her inwards and shutting the door behind them. It was cold outside to be sure, the clouds thick and grey though no snow was on the ground to wet her shoes—something she was grateful for as she stepped within the castle for the first time.

It was not what she expected. The building, while well maintained, still had the appearance of age that would indicate that the interior would be dark and foreboding, and possibly in disrepair. Except that it... wasn't.

There were plush carpets and tapestries as Erik escorted her through passages and archways, and she couldn't help but stop and peer into rooms as they passed, each one serving a function.

It was not the crumbling, sterile environment she feared, nor would it seem to require ample renovations before it was livable.

The kitchen was on a lower level, modern and large, and as Erik went to an industrial looking refrigerator, Christine was quite ready to pepper him with questions. "Erik, what is this place? Surely not every castle has an interior like this."

He pulled out some cream, though the container was far different than she was used to, setting it on the counter before searching out a kettle for their tea. "Erik?"

"I am certain this castle has been many things. Its latest purpose might have been as a hotel."

Christine blinked. "A hotel?"

Erik nodded. "An expensive thing, to maintain a castle. They'd put in a fortune in renovations, and the concept was a good one—allowing guests the pleasure of a true medieval experience. But we are quite out of the way here, and people simply did not want to make the journey."

Christine looked about the kitchen, Boo finally making a mewl of discontent at not being allowed out before now. She hesitated but permitted it, and he skulked about the kitchen, his nose and tail twitching as he did so. "And you just... bought it from them?"

Erik found the kettle and set it on the stove, his next expedition for tea and mugs proving much easier to accomplish. "I did. They were grateful, I can assure you."

Christine nodded absently, and watched him prepare her breakfast—a simple fare of scrambled eggs and toast, delicious and filling as she sat upon the counter, not wanting to waste time seeking out a dining room. Erik gave her a bemused look but did not correct her, sipping at his tea and nibbling an edge of toast himself before Boo reminded him that he would like breakfast as well.

"I do not have your platform, little fellow," Erik told him apologetically.

Christine rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you can find him one soon. But for now I think he'll be perfectly all right if you'd just put his dish down on the floor.

Erik dubiously did so, the food different from the ones they had at home, but the cans had been neatly stacked and waiting for them, and Christine rather thought Erik had taken it upon himself to hire someone to stock the kitchen before their arrival.

"So what do we do the rest of the day?" Christine asked him when she was eating the last of her toast, her belly grateful for Erik's efforts.

Erik swirled his tea and stared into its contents. "I can finish showing you our new home," he offered hesitantly. "Or, at least, begin the process. I am told it is rather a lengthy one."

Christine smiled at that. "I'd imagine so. All those rooms..."

Erik nodded and took a small sip. "And perhaps after, if you are not too tired of course..."

Christine gave him an encouraging look.

"Perhaps you would care to marry me."

* * *

Sooo... What do you think she'll say? Like there's any doubt... And looks like Erik bought her a converted castle hotel! In case anyone is unaware, there are places like this in Europe and they are amazing and I have already picked where I'd like to spend my honeymoon. There might have been a very attractive young man who brought me breakfast there once... *sigh* Four poster bed and a pot of tea...

Ahem.

Anyway.

Please review!


	41. Chapter 41

Can you believe we're at the end already? (Don't answer that...) I have so enjoyed sharing this with you all and getting to know you better! A special thank you to all who have reviewed so faithfully (you know who you are). Your encouragement and enthusiasm have meant so much to me.

And if it has to end, at least it ends on a long chapter, right?

Now, onward!

* * *

XLI

"Really?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably as he leaned against a cupboard, setting down his teacup, though still he did not look at her fully. "Only if you are amiable to the notion, of course. I just thought…"

Christine set down her plate beside her spot on the counter and hopped down, crossing to stand before her suddenly shy Erik. "What thought was that?"

He met her eyes then, so deep and encompassing that for a moment she forgot that he had spoken at all. "I thought you might like to begin our life here properly," he continued, the spell breaking somewhat even from his softly uttered words. "I know that it… troubled you that we were cohabitants before exchanging vows."

Christine blushed and her gaze flickered to the doorway and what lay beyond. If this really had been renovated as a hotel, there would be other rooms now. Rooms without morbid coffins and nightmares and pain; where she could very gently suggest that Erik take residence until they were married properly.

Except… she did not _want _him to leave her.

Despite the relatively short time she was aware of his presence beside her, she had grown quite fond of their arrangement. Boo made for a wonderful companion and no matter what Erik said, she would not evict him lightly. But that wasn't at all the same as having Erik there, and it seemed so very wrong to banish him now that they were finally in their new home.

At least, she hoped it would begin to feel like a home. At the moment it still felt as though they were trespassing—that at any moment someone would appear and shoo them from the premises. And she loathed the thought of trying to sleep in one of the big empty rooms all by herself. Her first night in a new country, a new residence, with no Erik to hold her close and comfort her if she should need it. She grimaced at the prospect.

Christine had evidently taken too long to answer for Erik sighed deeply and placed a kiss upon her cheek. "It is all right," he assured her, his tone betraying that it was anything but. "We may wed whenever you decide."

She grasped his wrist before he could escape her. "I think it would be perfect," she replied with utmost sincerity. "But I haven't a dress," she amended sheepishly. It didn't matter—truly it didn't. She would be marrying her Erik and that was what counted. She had never been one to imagine her wedding, to picture the host of witnesses that would crowd into a church to watch her exchange vows with the man she loved. And it was not as though she had her papa to walk with her…

"Ah," Erik responded, brightening considerably. "I believe the previous owners have left some options for you."

He tugged at her hand to usher her from the kitchen, and she could not help but find his enthusiasm endearing. But she halted him with a chuckle, going to Boo and scooping him up, his meal already gone from his bowl. "We can't leave him here," she told Erik firmly. "Let's get him situated in our room first and then he can start his explorations."

Erik's lips thinned his disapproval obvious, but Christine merely rolled her eyes and tucked herself closer to his side, ready to be led wherever he so chose. "Can't you at least appreciate that I called it _our _room?"

Erik sniffed but led them onward, and when she felt his lips brush against her temple, she knew he was not nearly as cross as he would have her believe.

"How do you know where to go?" she asked as they made yet another turn in the seemingly endless corridors.

Erik finally stopped before a finely carved door, smirking at her before he opened it. "You think I would purchase a home for us without first thoroughly examining the blueprints?"

Christine huffed and entered. She didn't know anything of the sort, nor did she think that diagrams were sufficient for getting a true understanding of a layout, but it was pointless to argue.

She had expected to be taken to one of the bedrooms, but instead it was a long hallway, paintings covering one of the walls while the other was filled with leaded windows, the sunny day disappearing behind a thick covering of clouds.

But what drew her attention most were the many dress forms, beautiful gowns of varying style following the length of the room. "What are these?" she asked, setting Boo down on the floor as he squirmed and protested their long walk.

"A common practice for old houses. People can better appreciate the history when it is spread out before them and not hidden away in a cupboard."

Christine nodded and drifted forward, little placards giving a description of each of the gowns and their believed origin. On the far wall was a glass cabinet, with corsets, gloves, and other accessories carefully preserved and exhibited.

"You don't think… I can't possibly wear one of these!"

Erik's head cocked to the side. "Why ever not? These are garments, and therefore meant to be _worn._"

She opened her mouth to retort, to firmly explain that these were now a piece of history—antiques!—but as she caught sight of a particularly lovely gown, layers of creamy silk and net mingling together to form a perfectly ethereal article, her desire to chastise melted away. Even before she read the description, it was obviously Victorian, the bustle perfectly constructed and the waist nipped becomingly.

He was offering, and was this truly so different than wearing a family heirloom? Except, she had no family, not anymore, no dress handed through the ages to clothe the newest bride on her wedding day.

Garments were made to be worn, not just admired.

And the way Erik was looking at her, his eyes burning with his desire to see her dressed as a proper bride… "You may have to help me with the buttons," she warned him, nervous yet so terribly excited at the prospect of what was to come.

"Nothing should please me more, except perhaps, helping you to undo them afterwards."

Her cheeks burned at his comment, far bolder than he typically allowed himself to be, but it was no less unwelcome. Not when her heart thumped a little more forcefully, her excitement overcoming her lingering anxiety.

Erik left her to see to their suitcases as Christine set about removing the dress from its form. It was remarkably well preserved, the small pearl buttons firmly fastened, though she was delicate in her movements.

Boo abandoned his prowling to watch her at work, and she dared not allow any of it to rest upon the floor lest he decide to use it as a nest.

She eyed the door for a moment, considering if it was safe to undress, then shook her head at her foolishness. He would be seeing quite enough of her later, and there was little point in feeling shy now.

Now that it was removed, she eyed the waistline dubiously. She was slight, despite Erik's attempts at overfeeding her, but this was most definitely made for a corseted foundation.

Quickly deciding not to think too much of it lest she convince herself it was all a mistake, she hurried to the glass exhibit and pulled out a few of the corsets, trying to gauge which would fit her best as she wrapped them about herself. She had always thought it required help to don and remove one, but there were hooks in the front and once she loosened it adequately, she found it rather simple to do herself, though the act of pulling it tight left her breathless as her lungs adjusted to their temporary cage.

Her bra and shirt had been abandoned in favor of this new support, and with her cheeks still reddened, she tucked it back into the cabinet, lest Erik walk in and see it dangling somewhere.

That accomplished, and more confident that the dress would fit as it should, she hurried back to the dress form and slid it over her head, the skirt securing with a hook while the bodice would require Erik's nimble fingers to see to the buttons.

But as her hands drifted down the front, the silk soft and tempered with age, she did not think she had ever felt more beautiful. The sleeves were small and left her shoulders and arms bare, and she could readily imagine a fine lady wearing it before her. She would wear pearls and jewels, and have the finest slippers on her feet, a maid having bound her hair into a comely style, leaving her throat bare and enticing.

She startled when the door opened and Erik appeared, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly slackened as he regarded her.

Christine fiddled with her skirts, suddenly feeling shy. "What do you think?"

"I think," he answered slowly, closing the door behind him before he came toward her. "You are perfection itself, my dear. And I do not deserve such a beauty."

She flushed, feeling remarkably pleased at his assessment, before turning her back to show him the many buttons that required his attention. "Help me please?"

She rather thought his breath quickened at that, but then his fingers were delving and working the tiny buttons into their loops, and as he went higher and there was no corset, no laces to keep his fingers from brushing against the bare skin of her back, she had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering.

And he had dared ask her if she found him _repulsive._

"You look very fine yourself," she replied when she had once again mastered her breathing. He had changed into a new suit, black and crisp even after their travels, a black overcoat completing the ensemble that went nearly to his ankles.

Erik merely hummed disbelievingly at her assessment before securing the final button, her breath hitching when he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, christening it. "Finished."

She carefully schooled her features lest he see how his help had affected her, and she held out her hand welcomingly. "Then I would like to be married now."

Erik's eyes glittered in agreement and he took her hand in his.

-X-

They'd had to take Boo to their bedroom first, settling him in and making many promises that they would return as soon as his keepers were married properly—or perhaps Christine was only the one making such assurances as Erik loomed by the door, his expression one of amusement and impatience in equal measure.

The room was nothing like she'd ever imagined being _hers_—all luxurious carpets, a large four poster beckoning, draped in dark hues that lent a decidedly cozy atmosphere to the room. It was large, with a sitting area and heavy drapes that she was certain would block out the smallest ray of light when they were closed.

She grinned at that, knowing she would hear plenty from Erik if her penchant for sleeping late continued in their new home.

There did not seem to be any other doors leading to a bathroom, and eventually she had to ask Erik for one, wanting to at least check her hair to ensure it was decent before they departed.

With a smirk, he walked toward a large bookcase and touched a little notch upon its side, immediately revealing a fully functional bath beyond.

Christine's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"It was quite the eccentric hotel," Erik informed her with a touch of pride.

It was still dark inside, and Erik reached in and tugged what seemed to be a bell pull, only to have the room immediately illuminated. Christine did not think she'd ever seen anything quite so wonderful.

Her hair did not take long, choosing a simple tuck that would at least keep it tidy and after selecting more suitable pair of shoes from her suitcase, she gave Boo a kiss goodbye before hesitating, her eyes straying to her tin full of memories that Erik had carefully placed upon the bed.

Did she dare?

Rather haltingly she went towards it, opening the lid once more and picking up her papa's wedding band. She had nothing else to offer Erik, no other symbol to give him, but would he appreciate her offering? She peeked up at him, still considering. It felt wrong to ask him for money to buy his own ring, and she doubted she could afford anything that would suit him with her own meager savings—not that she had access to such things any longer.

Erik was watching her cautiously, his expression inscrutable.

"It was my papa's," she explained quietly, her fingers drifting over the gold once more. "Would… would you like to wear it?" Christine felt silly asking it of him. He could afford anything in the world—perhaps did not even care for the idea of wearing a ring at all, and yet…

She could not ignore his sharp intake of breath, his gentle nod of acquiescence. "I would be most honored, Christine, but only if you are certain."

She glanced downward before slipping it onto her thumb, nodding firmly. "I can think of no better use for it. And maybe… maybe this way we'll have his blessing."

Erik grimaced at that, but he did not correct her—did not try to convince her that no father would have agreed to their union after their strange beginning.

And she was glad of it.

For as he ushered her from the room, she wanted nothing more than to simply enjoy this day.

They had come to the little village chapel in the same vehicle they'd been dropped off in, stashed as it was in a carriage house should they have further need of it. Christine hoped their driver lived nearby lest he have a very long walk ahead of him.

It had been a very strange thing to sit where there normally would be a steering wheel, and she was worried that Erik would find the change confusing. But as with most things, he seemed to adjust with grace. "Have you been here before?" she finally asked him when it seemed he knew where he was going without any assistance from a GPS or a map.

"I have," he told her after a moment's consideration. "A pleasant spot, this. And as far as people are concerned, they are not _too _terrible."

Christine very nearly rolled her eyes at his generous assessment, but she did not want to dissuade him from revealing more about his past experiences. "But you didn't stay?"

Erik frowned, and belatedly she wondered if she should have suggested they marry without him wearing this particular mask. It allowed him the silhouette for a nose, and perhaps looked more a prosthetic than a harsher covering, but would the marriage be as valid if she did not speak the vows to his true face?

"No, I did not stay. Always wandering, always searching. Until I had quite given up hope."

Christine swallowed thickly, her heart aching to hear the despondency in his tone as he remembered his travels. "Hope of what?"

He pulled up to the little stone church then, a cemetery to its side well kempt but ancient, the gravestones crumbling in places and the interred likely long since forgotten by the living.

"Finding someone who would want me to stay."

Tears came unbidden to her eyes and she was glad that he had parked for she was able to unbuckle her seatbelt and kiss his covered cheek, feeling all the more sure that what they were about to do was right. "I want you to stay with me always, Erik. It doesn't matter where we live, just as long as you're there."

He smiled at her softly, his own eyes glistening but he did not allow himself to cry. "And your little fellow."

Christine laughed and nodded. "And Boo too. But," she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I may just love you a little more. Maybe."

Erik sat a bit straighter at that, practically preening at her declaration.

Men.

As if there could be any doubt?

"Shall we go in?"

Christine nodded and allowed him to help her out, and she shivered slightly at the cold breeze, though she shook her head at Erik's concerned glance. "Let's go."

For a moment she worried they needed an appointment—though with Erik she supposed it was entirely possible that he had already made one for them. The longer they were here, it was becoming more apparent that he had been planning their relocation for longer than the few days she had known about. Had he begun the search for a new home as soon as he had seen her doodle? Or perhaps even before that? There were also most obviously people in his employ having made special purchases, such as the cat food for Boo, as well as their necessities for basic foods. They had even gone so far as to have placed a litter box within their bedroom, though if Christine was correct, she highly doubted that Erik would allow it to remain in such an open area for long.

Like modern conveniences, he imposed the need for privacy upon the most basic of things.

She felt a little like an intruder as they made their way into the chapel, stained glass windows lining the exterior, and Christine was sure that on a sunny day they would have shined with their brilliance. But the day had turned grey so instead they offered a pleasant reprieve from the stone of the walls.

"Oh! You gave me a fright!"

They both turned and saw a young woman scrubbing the floor, peering up at them from beneath the pews, a soapy hand clutching at her chest.

"Sorry," Christine offered, taking a step forward. "We were hoping to get married here?"

The girl's brow furrowed and she glanced briefly at Erik, before she smoothed her expression into a smile. "Elopin'? Sounds grand."

She rose from her spot on the floor. "You got another witness hidden away somewhere?"

Christine blushed and shook her head, feeling foolish that she hadn't thought of such things. "No, we don't really know anyone here yet."

The girl nodded and though she glanced warily to Erik once more, she came forward, brushing her hand quickly on her jeans before extending it to Christine. "Then let me be the first. I'm Megan." Her hand was firm and her smile warm, and as Christine introduced herself, some part of her she hadn't realized existed began to settle.

Erik was great company and she loved him dearly, but he was not the same as _female _companionship. And she would dearly like to have a friend here.

"I had a friend once with that name, back home."

Megan smiled. "Then her ma had good taste. Speakin' of though…" Her eyes flicked to the doorways beyond. "I'd better fetch mine and the minister or else you'll never be gettin' married."

Christine smiled and nestled closer to Erik as her new friend departed, and she was glad he wasn't cross as his hand came to rest upon her waist. "You don't mind if I have friends here, do you?"

He clutched her a bit closer, his voice soft. "As long as you do not forget your poor Erik."

She turned as best she could given his hold, her tone firm as she looked up at him. "Never."

The doors opened then and a woman bustled in with Megan in tow, an older gentlemen appearing behind them both.

And then it was time.

Erik spoke with the minister and produced a license from one of his pockets. The man seemed a bit surprised at their sudden entreaty, and Christine had the distinct impression that this particular village was steeped in tradition—that if a couple asked to be wed, this chapel would be filled, the well-wishers abundant.

But that wasn't what they wanted—not when they were still strangers here. And it was enough for Erik to have ventured from their new home at all, let alone parade him in front of a church full of people.

Eventually, with a bit more coaxing, the minister agreed, taking the license in hand and bidding them follow him toward the altar.

It should have troubled her that her papa was not there to walk with her.

It should have bothered her that the minister had to look down at their names upon the license in order to remember them.

But as Erik took her hands in his and promised his love and devotion, no matter what was to come, she could regret nothing of their courtship, of what had brought them here. And so with much surety she promised him the same.

She had not realized he had slipped her ring from her ringer until suddenly he was restoring it, his eyes burning with his pledge, with his vow, and it brought tears to her eyes when at last it settled once more upon her finger.

_I thee wed._

She had to take a moment to compose herself before she could do the same, her voice wavering slightly though she hoped her eyes related her sincerity.

The minister blessed them both, and permitted them a kiss, and though she had expected Erik to refuse, to keep such affections to the privacy of their own home, his lips were suddenly upon hers, insistent and needful, even though the kiss itself was but a moment.

It left her feeling breathless all the same.

He held her hand as they signed the certificate that made it all official—a real, true marriage that none could dispute, that none could claim had come from a hurried sham to circumvent the law. She had married him because she loved him and no other reason, and as Megan and her mother signed as witnesses and finally the minister, she could not stop her giggle as Erik tucked away the precious document once again.

They were _married._

Erik was striding back towards the outer doors, and belatedly she turned to thank everyone, and perhaps apologize to Megan for their haste, but her knowing smile and sparkling eyes made such a thing unnecessary. "Come again soon! I'd like to know you better."

Before she could answer, Erik had her through the doors and was ushering her to the car, and she gladly entered it so she did not have to feel the biting breeze nipping at her bared shoulders.

The drive was a quiet one, Erik content merely to hold her hand, the speed in which he drove not at all relating to his enthusiasm at having her to himself again.

He returned the car to the carriage house and helped her from the vehicle, her skirts and bustle cumbersome as she moved, and she would be grateful to abandon it all for one of her soft nighties. Except… except Erik would be helping her _out _of said garments, and it might be a while yet before she could don one of her favorite nightgowns.

She blushed at the thought, her heart quickening and as he took her hand to escort her back to the house, the castle, their _home,_ she did not try to quell her desire.

It would likely not be perfect. Between Erik's past and her own inexperience, it might take them a time or two before things settled.

But as she slowed her pace, savoring the moment of returning home for the first time as man and wife, she looked forward to it all the same. Because it was between her and Erik, just them at their most vulnerable, and she trusted him. Together they would make it something beautiful—because it meant something to the both of them—and perhaps that's what mattered most in any case.

Erik cast an anxious glance at the castle when he saw her shiver, but instead of hurrying her along he simply removed his long coat and helped her into it. "You look so beautiful, Christine," he told her reverently, and she rested her head against his arm as they walked over the bridge, the moat on either side of them.

"We're married," was her simple reply, still an incredible, wonderful thought that brought tears to her eyes.

She had been so lonely without him. But she had become so used to that unhappiness that she'd grown numb, forgotten what it was to be loved and _to _love. But he'd reminded her. He'd coaxed her affections with his sweetness and his care, from shy smiles across a courtroom floor to his deference when he'd deemed her judge over his own mock trial. He valued her, treasured her, and she would do the same in turn.

Maybe someday they would hear word of what happened in the other trials—if Ms. Poligny and Mr. Debienne were found guilty of their crimes. But they held no power over Erik now, their claims and accusations could not find him. He was safe. _They _were safe. And home.

He held her a little closer at her declaration, his lips brushing her temple, as he whispered, "My wife," in return, and she knew when they returned to their bedroom she would ask him to remove his mask, the edges tickling at her skin even as he kissed her.

She would have no barriers between them, no pretences. Just Erik and Christine.

As it should always be.

Their family would likely grow, with children and more kittens to come. Perhaps even now there were some on the grounds waiting for a new home and a desire to be Boo's playmate.

But at the center of it all would be their marriage, their union that they fought and compromised for, even through misunderstanding and rashness, through hurt and pain. It would not always be simple, of that she had no doubt. Nothing for them ever had been. There was still so much of him she did not know or understand. But he was hers and she would love him as best she could.

And perhaps that would be sufficient.

She would sing for him when they went to their room—something soft and romantic. A christening of their new marriage just as their consummation would accomplish soon afterward. A part of her was glad for their previous interruptions, as this allowed for something more meaningful, more poignant as she gave not only her body, but her voice as well.

To her husband.

As they reached the large doors, Erik lifted her into his arms, carrying her across the entrance, his eyes alight with amusement and his lips quirked into a smile.

And her heart ached with how much she loved him.

"To our quarters, my lady?"

Christine had no doubt that Erik would eventually make little changes to the castle about them. She'd yet to see a music room, but she could easily see him converting one of the rooms chambers to fit his purpose. Perhaps another pipe organ, or maybe a piano, where they could sing and create together.

Where he could play the violin while she remembered her past and looked forward to her future.

She'd show him her little tin of memories, of the photos that captured such sweet happenings, and share more of herself with him, while equally promising him that soon he would have his own remembrances to treasure. Memories with her.

Christine stifled another giggle and swept her hand imperiously, too delighted at his game to even consider protesting as he continued to carry her.

"Onward, my lord."

And as his eyes burned and some part of her quivered in response, she was very well aware of what precisely was to come, and she knew it would be no great duty at all.

Not with her Erik.

Not with her love.

And that was quite enough for her.

* * *

Sooo... They're married! And I think we all know what happens next for our love birds... What did you think of the wedding? Christine's dress? Her hopes for their future?

To preemptively answer a few enquiries, there is no epilogue planned, nor a sequel. I intentionally wanted to leave this one rather open ended and available for you to insert your own imaginings for their future together. (Though if you ask me, there's most certainly a little girl kitty wandering about the grounds waiting to be Boo's friend. And since never once has Erik or Christine mentioned contraceptives, methinks a wee babe would soon be in the works as well.)

Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, favouriting, and encouraging. You're all so wonderful to write for! And don't worry, this will not be the last time you hear from me. I'm already itching for another Erik and Christine story... this time back in period dress I think.

And one last favour to me if you could be so kind... if you purchased Civic Duty through Amazon, please consider leaving a review!

Anyway, until next time!


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